library of congress 



□ 0D2037 C }3 C 1A 






Copyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 












% 




The Lily 

oe 

The Coal Fields. 

BY 

WILL W. WHALEN 

> 1 

Mayhew Publishing Company, 

100 Ruggles Street, Boston. 




COPYRIGHTED, 1910 
By WILL W. WHALEN 
2nd Edition. 

REVISED VERSION OF 

‘WHAT’S IN A NAME? 



Cl A2800D4 




THE LILY 


TO THE NOBLE MEN AND WOMEN WHO ARE 
SO STRENUOUSLY OPPOSING THE HEAVEN- 
DEFYING “WHITE SLAVE” TRADE — TO THOSE 
FRIENDS OF THE PURE-SOULED SERVANT 
GIRLS, FRESH FROM THE GREEN INNOCENT 
COUNTRY; AND FACING THE DANGERS OF 
THAT POPULATED, INFESTED WILDERNESS, 
THE CITY. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. The Breaker Engineer... 1 
II. The Twins 13 

III. Belle’s Husband 23 

IV. Mary and Martha 29 

V. An Awful Night 36 

VI. Drifting Asunder 44 

VII. What’s in a Name? 51 

VIII. Mysterious Louise 59 

IX. The Miner’s Wife 65 

X. Greek Meets Greek 78 

XI. Fred’s Nine Fridays 92 

XII. The Social Stepping-Stone. 103 

XIII. An Unhappy Love 114 

XIV. Sister Isabella’s Love 118 

XV. Farewell to the Convent. 124 

XVI. The Ending of a Feud — 138 

XVII. A Lucky Loss 144 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

XVIII. A Wife’s Sacrifice 149 

XIX. Mary Breen’s Life at 

Montgomery 154 

XX. At the Eleventh Hour. 162 

XXI. Judge Not 179 

XXII. The Lily and the Violet . . 187 

XXIII. At Death’s Door 195 

XXIV. A Coal Region Proposal . . . 199 

XXV. Back to the Coal Regions . 202 


CHAPTER I. 


THE BREAKER ENGINEER. 

Hugh Nolan was gloomily wiping oil from 
his fingers, when Barney Green entered the 
breaker engine-house of Rhoads’ Colliery on 
Saturday morning. Nolan was the breaker en- 
gineer. Green was a fireman in the boiler- 
house adjoining the colliery. Many visits 
in the day did Green pay Nolan, and never 
left him without having a joke or two; but 
to-day Nolan was dispirited, and Green came 
to the conclusion that there was “somethin’ in 
the wind.” 

“I say, Hugh, somehow you ain’t like 
yourself this morning; what’s up? Did old 
Cy say anything to you when he was here ? 
I met him just outside the door as I came in, 
and he looked like he wanted to eat some- 
body.” 

Cyrus Royer was the foreman of Rhoads’ 
Colliery. 

“He said too much to me,” grumbled 
Nolan, “too much entirely to a man who does 
his best; but pshaw, I oughtn’t to mind old 
Cy. He is good at heart, though he has a 


2 


THE LILY OF 


bad temper and a nasty tongue. I know he 
doesn’t mean the one-half of what he says. 
But, Barney, lately he is not at all fair with 
me.” 

“He used to think there was no one on 
earth like you till that miserable, sneakish 
nephew of his came here to oil the machin’ry. 
Do you know, Hugh, I’m inclined to think 
that that cream-faced rake’s been telling 
old Cy tales. It’s just something like Sam 
Royer’ d do.” 

Nolan laughed; Green was always jump- 
ing at wrong conclusions. 

“Why, Barney, I think Sam’s one of my 
best friends. He is very fond of me.” 

“Fond of you, is he, the hypocrite! He 
makes you think so; but I say, Hugh, that 
he’s after your job, and if you’re not careful, 
he’ll get it. There’s a mighty big difference 
between oiling machin’ry and running breaker 
engine, and Sam Royer knows that.” 

Nolan laughed away the subject. His 
gloom had vanished. 

“Barney,” he said, “are you acquainted 
with that Bridget Purcel? I tell you she’s 
a fine girl.” 

Green chuckled. “In love, are you ? Well, 
I knew, Hugh, that your turn’d come like 
all other men’s.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 


3 


“Go on with you, Barney! Who said I 
was in love? If a man admires a girl and 
asks a question about her, it doesn’t follow 
that he loves her.” 

“That’s so, sonny,” replied the other, with 
a sly leer at his friend’s clear-cut features. 
“Well, I kin say this of Bridget Purcel: she’s 
a lady every inch of her, and her heart, God 
bless her, is tender beyond one of her age. 
When my ole woman was sick last winter 
and mighty near handing in her checks, I 
had no money to pay anybody to take care 
of her. ‘Well,’ says I to her, ‘Till, our door- 
step won’t be run down be girls coming to 
give us a lift.’ Poor Till, she fetched up a 
swapper of a big sigh, when she looked ’round 
at her untidy house, for, even if I do say it 
meself, Hugh, Till when she’s well, keeps 
her house immaculate clean. What do you 
think! Bridget Purcel came every day that 
Till was sick, washed the young ones, tidied 
up the place, and read or talked to Till. 
But that wasn’t all; she did more. She 
brought delicate things fer Till; such things! 
why, they’d make a dying king eat! And 
when I’d come from work, there’d be Bridget 
at the stove making tea or cooking, and look- 
ing like a picture you’d see in an advertise- 
ment. Such a girl ! I tell you Mine Run’d be 


4 


THE LILY OF 


a decent place if it had more Bridget Purcels.” 

Clang! Some one had pulled the bell- 
wire; a signal for stopping the machinery. 

Nolan gave his attention to the engine, and 
in a very brief time the machinery was still. 
Barney Green returned to the boiler-house. 

“Wonder what’s wrong now ?” soliloquized 
Nolan, looking after the retreating form 
of Green. 

“Let her go! All right!” came a coarse 
voice to Nolan’s ears. 

Clang! Clang! a signal for starting the 
machinery. 

Nolan had scarcely laid his hand on the 
lever, and the machinery was just beginning to 
move, when he heard a chorus of excited shouts. 

“Whoa! Who— a! !” Clang! 

Nolan began to wonder why he had been 
given a signal to start. His wonderment 
was increased, when Cyrus Royer, the fore- 
man, came into the engine-house, perspiring 
and sputtering with anger, and as red as a 
turkey-cock. 

“What do you mean, you fool!” he roared. 
“Trying to kill somebody? Why, I was in a 
screen when you started up the machin’ry! 
More be good luck I wasn’t made mince- 
meat of! What’d you start the engine for?” 

“I got a signal to start.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 


5 


“Got a signal to start! Listen to the man! 
Where’d you get the signal from? Who’d 
give it to you, ’cept one of our men? and they 
didn’t. You’ve got signals in your ears, I 
guess.” 

“I received a signal to start,” replied Nolan, 
doggedly. 

The irritable old foreman’s eyes were spit- 
ting fire. “You thought that you did, you 
simpleton!” 

All Nolan’s pride and anger were aroused. 
He had suffered a good deal from Cyrus Royer, 
more than he would have suffered from any 
other foreman, for he knew that the old man 
was kind at heart, and Nolan was really 
attached to him. He took up his dinner- 
can and bottle. 

“I’m going home.” 

“We’ll try to live without you!” replied 
the irate foreman. 

Nolan, with mingled feelings, drew the 
rope of his bottle through the handle of his 
can, and went down the scarred, creaky steps 
of the engine-house. 

“Well, there is no use in crying over spilt 
milk,” said he. “I’ll have to get another 
job, that’s all.” 

Musing, he walked along the road, which 
was covered with coal-dirt and cinders from 


6 


THE LILY OF 


the fiery boiler-house. As he neared Purcel’s 
old house, he heard a pleasing voice raised 
in song. Lifting his eyes, he saw Bridget 
Purcel in the garden. She had just finished 
digging a salad-bed, and now was collecting 
from the upturned earth such small stones 
as happened to be among it. 

Never before did Hugh Nolan so long to 
have her speak a few words to him, if only to 
say good morning. But it looked very 
much as if Bridget would not even see him, 
so absorbed was she in her work and song. 
Then events took a turn. Bridget came to 
the fence, bearing in a large scoop the small 
stones and pieces of stick which she had 
gathered together. A wicked plan rushed into 
Nolan’s head. As the shower of tiny stones 
and sticks came over the fence, he managed 
to get in the way of the refuse, pretending he 
had not seen the danger. It was a wickedly 
heroic act, for the stones hurt, and the sticks 
stung his hands and face, and some of the 
damp bits of earth got into one of his eyes. 
A shriek of horror from Bridget, as he had ex- 
pected. He heard her light step on the board- 
walk, then the gate opened, and she was 
beside him before she saw who her victim was. 

“Oh, sir, pardon — why, it’s you, Mr. Nolan 
— oh, please pardon my carelessness! I never 


THE COAL FIELDS. 


7 


dreamed that any one would be so near the 
fence; it is unusual for any one to walk so 
close to the fence. Oh, pardon me!” 

She looked very pretty in her distress, with 
her flushed little face, her finger-nails in 
mourning, her hands weed-stained, her worn 
shoes bearing some of the soil on them. 
Nolan was exultant, though his eye was 
giving him considerable trouble because of 
the dirt in it. 

“Don’t let this little accident distress you, 
Miss Purcel. It’s my own fault; I shouldn’t 
have been out of my moorings.” 

She had taken from her pocket a small 
white handkerchief, with a hole worn in it. 

“Come,” she said pityingly, “let me get 
that dirt out of your eye.” 

He stooped, and she drew with the corner 
of her handkerchief the troublesome particles 
from the suffering optic. 

“You are very kind,” he said, when she 
had seen with satisfaction that all the bits 
of earth were gone from his eye, “and in 
return for your kindness, I have soiled your 
handkerchief.” 

She laughed a merry laugh that pleased 
him. “You are lenient with me, Mr. Nolan. 
If it had been any one else, I should have 
received a ten minutes’ lecture.” 


8 


THE LILY OF 


Nolan slept late on Monday morning. 
He was awakened by his mother’s calling him. 
He yawned sleepily. 

‘Til be down in a minute.” 

“Well, hurry up, Mr. Royer is waiting fer 
you.” 

“Mr. who?” — in surprise. 

“It’s me, Hugh,” called back a well-known 
raspy voice, the voice of the foreman. “I 
want to see you.” 

Nolan slipped into his trousers and, with- 
out lacing his shoes, went downstairs, the 
laces swish-a-swishing about his ankles. 

“Well, Cy, good morning. I didn’t expect 
to see you to-day, at least did not expect to 
have you as a caller.” 

“No, ner neither did I, but we never know 
what’s going to turn up. I say, young fella, 
you’re all right. Gimme your hand.” 

Nolan, wondering, reached out his hand, 
and the old foreman wrung it. 

“And I’ve been wronging you a whole lot 
in my mind of late. That do-no-good 
nephew of mine, Sam, was tuk to jail this 
morning, caught at last in some of his tricks; 
and he’s safe if he gets out in a year. I must 
say, though, he’s got a good trait er two left, 
for he told me before they tuk him off, that 
he’d been giving out a deal of false stuff about 


T H?E COAL FIELDS. 


9 


yourself. I guess he got conscience- stricken. 
He wanted that breaker-engine, yesterday he 
got it, but he hasn’t kept it long. It was him 
that hollered and made you start the ma- 
chin’ry. . . But now just put on your 

workin’ clothes and take back your engine. 
I left it in Barney Green’s hands till you come. 
And I want you to forget whatever I may a 
said lately to hurt your feelin’s. I was under 
false delusions; and besides, you know my 
chin- whacking so rough to you on Saturday 
was more from the head than the heart.” 

Nolan shook hands again with the old man, 
and then Royer went back to the colliery. 
Mrs. Nolan poured out coffee for her son, 
while he dried his face on the roller-towel. 

Nolan found Barney Green and the other 
fireman, Jack Hayes, indulging in a good- 
natured squabble in the engine-house. 

“Why the divil don’t you go to church, 
Barney?” Jack was asking. 

“Because I certainly don’t like the way the 
church is run.” 

“Oh, I guess if things was right, you’d be 
Pope, is that it?” 

“Bad luck to your impudence — you that 
would marry a Jew, you to talk to me. I’ll 
tell you why I don’t go to church; every 
sermon winds up wid a silver tail — the priest 
is always after money.” 


10 


THE LILY OF 


Then both espied Nolan and were prompt 
with congratulations. 

Leaving Hayes and Nolan together, Green 
trudged over to “coal up” at the boiler-house. 

“Barney’s been telling me, Hugh, that 
you’re struck on Bridget Purcel,” said Hayes. 
“Ain’t it queer how tastes differ! — I’m gone 
on Belle. There’s the difference in the world 
in them, though they are twins. Oh, didn’t 
you know that before?” 

“No, strange to say, Jack; but then the 
girls don’t look at all alike; Bridget tall, 
dark-haired, gracious, and as strong as a 
young lioness.” 

“Not bad at disgribing, old boy, but why 
don’t you disgribe Belle too ? — Ah, I believe 
you don’t like her.” 

“Well, to tell you the truth, Jack, she isn’t 
much to my taste.” 

His friend seemed not at all hurt, for he 
replied, “A good many doesn’t like Belle, 
but that’s on account of the little airs she 
gives herself. Sure, that’s the only fault she 
has. But,” with animation, “she’s as pretty 
as Bridget, and no one kin deny that.” 

“You are right in that, Jack; but her beauty 
never appealed to me. Where the deuce 
did the girls get their looks from anyhow ? 
Their dad is as homely as a corncob, and their 


T H.E COAL FIjELDS. 11 

mother will never be shot for her beauty, and 
as for the Purcel boys — well, they wouldn’t be 
one, two, three with you and me.” 

“And now comes the question: What does 
the Purcel girls think of us, Hugh ?” 

“I don’t know. I have often danced with 
Bridget, and she’s the girl who can trip it, 
I tell you.” 

“So kin Belle,” put in Jack. 

Hugh laughed. “You are pretty far gone, 
Jack. But I do not intend to marry till I 
can support a woman as she ought to be sup- 
ported. For that reason, I have not acted 
the lover with Bridget Purcel.” 

“Bright boy!” was the reply. “While you’re 
making a home for Bridget, somebody’ll 
come along and pick her up, and she’ll help 
him to make a home. Be the time you get 
the cage finished, you won’t be able to ketch 
the bird. Now, I’m diff’rint from you; to- 
night I’m going to ask Belle to come under 
my wing, and let her and me make a nest 
together.” 

All that day, Nolan’s thoughts were with 
Bridget Purcel. On his way to work that 
morning, he had seen her at the washtub and 
heard her singing. Her voice he could still 
hear above the screeching of the machinery, 
above the rumbling of the cogs, rollers and 


12 


THE LILY OF 


screens; above the noise of the coal, as it slid 
down the chutes; above the “chuff-chuff” of 
the steam, as it discharged from the pipe over 
the engine-house roof; above the rattling of 
the elevators, as they carried their buckets, 
burdened with coal, to the screens above, 
and there, disgusted and weary as it were, 
cast the load into the greedy mouths of the 
screens. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE TWINS. 

Bridget Purcel was combing her sister 
Belle’s hair. 

“Bid, you would make a splendid maid for 
a fine lady; you are so delicate in your touch,” 
chirped Belle. “Would that I were that fine 
lady!” 

Belle cocked her head to one side like some 
pretty bird, and looked admiringly at herself 
in the bureau glass. 

“No indeed, Biddy, we can’t altogether 
find fault with the good Lord for not giving 
us money, since He gave us such faces, but 
I do wish He had thrown in money into the 
bargain. And our figures aren’t modeled 
after a dumpling either, like Katie Finley’s. 
Gosh! I saw her yesterday with her beau, a 
sickly chap, with a languid moustache, and 
his nose ornamented with a beautiful large 
pimple. Do you know, that little snipe can’t 
bear us.” 

“Well, ain’t this dishgusting !” Mrs. Purcel 
appeared at the door. “Bridget, you’re a 
goose. After your hard day at the washtub, 


14 


THE LILY OF 


here you’re fixing up me lady’s hair, and 
herself wouldn’t wet her fingers for you. I 
guess she’s off to a dance to-night, and your- 
self stiff and sore after that washboard.” 

“Let Belle be, mam. I’m not tired; and 
if I feel like fixing her hair, why shouldn’t I ? 
She didn’t ask me to.” 

“Yes, that’s you every time, Bridget. 
You’d work your finger-nails to the bone for 
her, the lazy good-for-nothing.” 

“Mam!” Bridget’s rich dark eyes were 
shining with anger, for she saw tears in her 
sister’s. “Please don’t go any further. Every 
word you say hurts me as much as it does 
Belle.” 

“Then I’ll shut me trap if it does.” 

“You’re right, my own Biddy,” said her 
father’s voice. He had been in the next room, 
and the loud talking had reached his ears. 
“Bess, why do you say such things to Belle? 
You wouldn’t do it to an outsider.” 

“Because she’s lazy, the flighty thing, and 
wants Bridget to wait on her, hand and foot, 
and I won’t stand it. To-day when Bridget 
was down over the steaming washtub, me 
lady Gay comes downstairs, and began to 
steam her complexion over the tea-kittle, 
but it didn’t take me a month of Sundays to 
fire her. Says I, Tt’d suit you better to be 


THE COAL FIELDS. 15 


steaming your face over the tubs as Bridget 
is doing.’ Now, this thing has got to stop: 
Bridget doing all the work, and Belle look- 
ing at her face all day, and trotting around 
like a jack wid books on top of her skull, to 
give her a nice walk. And it’s not two days 
since I come upon her lying down wid hot- 
water cloths laid on her eyes, to make them 
shine. As if the divil didn’t put plenty enough 
shine into them, for her to make the young 
boys loose their heads! I wonder the Lord 
don’t strike her and turn her into a pillar of 
salt. Thanks be to God and His holy saints, 
your wife never had no beauty to affect her 
brain, Mike Purcel.” 

“Pap, I won’t let Belle work. She is not 
so strong as I am, and she would work if I 
should allow her to do it. She has offered to 
help me, but I don’t need any help,” said 
Bridget, hazarding a falsehood. 

“That she did!” bitterly replied Mrs. Purcel. 
‘ ‘Bridget, you ain’t no good at telling fibs.” 

The mother went downstairs, and Mr. 
Purcel laid his hand kindly on Belle’s bright 
streaming tresses. 

“Don’t mind her, little one,” said he sooth- 
ingly. He always addressed Belle as if she 
were a very young child; he would never 
think of so addressing Bridget. “Your mother 


16 


THE LILY OF 


is fonder of you than she appears. She says 
twiced as much as she means ; don’t mind her.” 

He left the sisters together. Belle for some 
time sat on the bed, with her head on Bridget’s 
bosom, and sobbed silently; then she be- 
moaned her sad lot. 

“Oh, God is unjust, Bridget.” 

“Belle, you little heathen, I’ll beat you if 
you say that. There is no injustice in God; 
you are awfully irreverent, but I know you 
don’t mean what you say,” replied the more 
pious sister. 

“Yes, I do mean it. God has not been 
fair with me. I really believe mam hates me. 
When God gave her two little babies, He 
gave her love sufficient for only one, and that 
love you have, dear. Then He gave strength 
sufficient for only one woman, and you got the 
vast bulk of that. A chicken or cat has as 
much strength as I have. No wonder I am 
lazy. I am sure, Bridget, that if I had your 
glorious strength, I should work hard too. 
Why, love, if you had a prize-fighter for a 
husband, you could hold your end up with 
him.” 

“But God gave you great beauty, you little 
sprig. Flowers don’t need much strength.” 

“Yes, but He gave you as much beauty as 
He did me — but there,” she threw her arms 


THE COAL FIELDS. 17 


about Bridget’s neck, and the sisters’ bloom- 
ing cheeks came together, “you always soften 
me with your flattery. I really think, Biddy, 
you can read me like a book.” 

“Love’s eyes are sharp, Belle.” 

“Are they? I suppose that is why Hugh 
Nolan keeps his eyes on you so much, Bid — 
trying to sharpen them, so as to find out if you 
care for him.” 

Belle laughed teasingly, as she resumed 
her seat before the glass. She was now her- 
self again. Her nature was like some delicate 
musical instrument; a touch, and all its sen- 
sitive strings were quivering, then in an in- 
stant they were still again. 

“Bid,” and she looked at Bridget’s face 
in the glass, “are you really and truly blush- 
ing ? Yes, you are, you rock of wisdom. So 
you love Hugh Nolan?” 

“No, I don’t, Belle. I shall never love 
any man till he asks me to love him; and 
though Hugh Nolan is a perfect gentleman, 
and treats me kindly and considerately, he 
doesn’t act like a lover.” 

“But I judge that you would love him if he 
were to ask you ? — Oh, Bid, I look like a 
dream with my hair piled up that way. My ! 
won’t I seem ever so much taller! Such taste 
as you have! — But you would marry Hugh 


18 


THE LILY OF 


Nolan, wouldn’t you, if he were to tell you 
he loved you ? — There, that big hairpin is 
on the floor at my feet.” 

“Yes, I should love him.” 

“Bid, you don’t mean it! Marry a miner, 
or a man who works around the mines!” 

“I should marry a blind man if I loved 
him, and then I should take in washing to 
support him.” 

“You romantic thing, you don’t mean that 
at all, I know you don’t.” 

“But I know I do,” said Bridget earnestly. 

“Well, you are not like your sister then, 
for I’ll marry money, and through necessity, 
take a man with it. If the money holds 
out, I shall try to tolerate the man.” 

Belle’s coiffure was now completed, and 
she was dressing. “But, Bid, you should 
think before taking such a step. You and I 
can make good catches; we are the prettiest, 
cleverest and best educated girls at Mine 
Run. We know as much as can be learned up 
here. — Get me that white cloud off the shelf, 
I can’t reach it.” 

After her parents and brothers had gone 
to bed, Bridget damped off the kitchen fire 
and set a lunch on the table. To keep the 
teapot warm, she put it on the front lids of 
the stove. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 19 


“She’ll be hungry after the dance, my dear 
Belle,” whispered Bridget, as she turned the 
light low and left the kitchen. 

Having finished her prayers, over which 
she nodded once or twice, for she was really 
tired, Bridget got, into bed. She put the 
larger and better pillow on Belle’s side and 
took the little old hard one for herself, then 
slept as only a hard-working, healthy girl 
can sleep. 

“Bridget, you are like a rock!” Belle’s 
voice awoke her. She had returned from 
the dance and was just in bed. “Bridget, 
my hands are cold.” Bridget covered the 
soft, icy little hands with her own warm 
palms. “Ugh, how the wind is howling! 
One would think it was November instead 
of August. That galoot, Jack Hayes, kept 
me out there in the cold, talking stuff and 
nonsense to me. Why, Bridget, he actually 
asked me to marry him and attempted to 
kiss me. But let me tell you, he felt the 
weight of my fingers across his cheek. The 
thought of it — asked me to be his wife ! Ugh ! 
his breath smelt of whiskey.” 

“But a mouse may look at the moon, you 
know,” laughed Bridget, “and Jack Hayes 
is very handsome, despite his bad habits; so 
handsome, indeed, that Katie Finley might 
envy you.” 


20 


THE LILY OF 


“And he is mighty presumptuous, Bid, the 
insolent fellow.” She fell asleep, saying, 
“To think that he wanted to marry me, the 
jacky!” 

Next morning, Bridget arose at five as usual 
to prepare breakfast for her father and 
brothers, and fill their dinner-cans and coffee 
bottles. She was ironing when Belle appeared 
at nine. Bridget pushed the irons to the 
back of the stove. 

“I have a bit of cocoa boiling for you, Belle, 
and I’ll make a few slices of toast.” 

“Faith, then you’ll not,” put in Mrs. 
Purcel, entering the kitchen from the porch, 
where she had been standing. “If she wants 
toast, let her get it for herself. Them that 
don’t work oughtn’t to be fed like queens. 
She will set down at feasts what she won’t 
never make.” 

“There you are again, mam,” said Bridget, 
angrily and sadly too; “you are forever find- 
ing fault; you make me so wretched.” 

“Well, I don’t mean to, child, but I find 
fault where there is plenty of fault to be 
found.” 

Then ensued a bitter quarrel between 
Belle and her mother. Bridget tried to in- 
terfere, but all to no purpose. Belle, in a 
rage, said she would leave home, and Mrs. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 21 


Purcel retorted, “Good riddance to bad rub- 
bage.” Belle ran upstairs and locked herself 
in her bedroom, while Bridget went on with 
her ironing. She was taking great pains 
with a white skirt of Belle’s when her sister 
came to her. 

“Give me that skirt, Bridget,” she said 
curtly. She took it from the ironing board 
and returned upstairs. Shortly after, in her 
street clothes, she came back with a valise 
in her hand. “I am going to the city, Bridget ; 
I can’t stand this nagging any longer. Put 
a cloud on and come to the station with me.” 

A cry from Bridget and tears. “Oh, 
Belle, think of pap and me and the boys, 
especially Larry, who is so fond of you.” 

“I said, Bridget, come to the station. If 
you won’t come, very well; let me go alone.” 
She walked to the door. 

“Only a minute, Belle, and I’ll go.” 

“Well, dry your eyes, Bid, or people will 
think there is a death in the family,” said 
Belle, with that cool way she had when she 
was much disturbed or excited. 

Poor Bridget obeyed. She reasoned with 
Belle, but she might better have kept silence. 
Her heart sank when she saw her sister buy 
a ticket for the city; but it sank lower still 
when she saw the train come steaming in. 


22 


THE LILY OF 


Belle kissed her, and boarded the train with- 
out a tear. But as the cars began slowly to 
move away, a tear-wet, flushed face appeared 
at an open window, and a choked voice tried 
to say good-bye. Belle was gone. 


CHAPTER III. 


BELLE’S HUSBAND. 

August waned, November came; the 
Christmas holly appeared and vanished from 
the store windows; February, bleak and cold, 
arrived. 

Belle was absent six months. She had 
written home only a few letters; but Bridget 
attributed this neglect, not to lack of affection, 
but to Belle’s distaste for letter-writing. The 
letters were always addressed to Bridget, 
but the first day of February brought a letter 
from Belle addressed to her father. Brid- 
get’s fingers fairly itched to open the envelope, 
and that day seemed very long until her father 
returned from his work. The letter coldly 
informed him that Belle was going to marry. 
Her husband-to-be was a man of no religion, 
but he would not interfere with her reli- 
gious practices. He was wealthy, she added 
pointedly. 

Bridget stole upstairs to her lonely bed- 
room. She felt that nothing but evil could 
come from this marriage. She tried to look 
into the seeds of time, to see what the harvest 


24 


THE LILY OF 


would be ; but the future was mercifully hid- 
den from her. 

Early in May, Belle, followed by her hus- 
band, swept into the kitchen where Bridget 
was mending her father’s smockfrock. The 
visit was wholly unexpected; and Bridget 
gave one glad cry, as she caught Belle in her 
arms. A swift glance at her sister’s husband 
told Bridget that she could never like him; a 
tall man with a cruel, refined face and cold 
eyes. Such eyes ! Bridget never forgot them. 
Mrs. Purcel’s greeting of Belle was not very 
demonstrative, but Mr. Purcel’s embrace 
and kiss compensated for that. 

“Oh, Belle, you are beautiful!” exclaimed 
Bridget, when she and her sister were alone 
in her bedroom. “Your skin is like a baby’s.” 

“No wonder, pet, for I take care of it. 
You know there is a vast difference between 
Belle Purcel and Mrs. Robert Burroughs. 
They seem so far, far away, Bid, the old days 
when you and I were sharing this room and 
using butter on our faces when we had no 
cold cream.” 

That night every one at Mine Run was 
talking about Belle Purcel’s husband. Jack 
Hayes got drunk and made a fool of himself. 
Hugh Nolan went to bed early and sulked. 
Each had his own reason. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 25 


“Bridget is too good for a common miner,” 
said Hugh to his mother. “She will marry 
well like her sister. Her beauty and tact 
will win for her a better home than a miner 
can ever give her. God bless her!” 

He drew the bed clothes about his neck so 
tightly that they almost choked him. Per- 
haps that was why he groaned so, poor fellow. 

Bridget, as she told Belle that Jack Hayes 
was intoxicated, glanced sharply at her, but 
a millstone could not have shown less con- 
cern than Belle’s dimpled face did. She 
seemed to have forgotten all about him. 

Next day Bridget was making her bed, 
when loud talking came from the next room 
in which were Belle and her husband. Belle’s 
voice, clear and sweet and full of misery, cut 
Bridget’s tender heart. 

“Robert Burroughs, you will make me 
hate you. I believe I hate you now, jealous 
wretch that you are. Do you think that, 
because you pile your money on me in fine 
clothes and jewels, you can so lord it over me ? 
I sold you my body, not my soul.” 

“Belle, I can’t control myself; you madden 
me.” 

Then there were more rebukes from the 
young wife. Bridget clutched the old bureau 
for support ; every word was a flake of fire to 
her sorrowing heart. 


26 


THE LILY OF 


“Brute!” she heard Belle scream. “Would 
you strike me!” 

There was the sound of a scuffle. Brid- 
get’s great love burst forth in an impetuous, 
indignant stream. Belle had thrown open 
the door in a second and lay on the floor moan- 
ing; while her husband, trembling with rage 
and shame, stood over her. Bridget noticed 
his clenched fist. He might strike her sister 
again. He was a tall, broad, strong man, but 
Bridget was fearless. She said not a word, 
but, like a tigress, seized his arms and hurled 
him, before he knew it, far into the room. 
She took Belle tenderly in her arms and 
carried her to the next room, slamming the 
door between the apartments. Belle’s temple 
was bruised. 

“Bid, please let me lie here by myself.” 

Bridget with delicacy, said nothing, asked 
no explanation, but gently drew down the 
blinds, and left Belle alone. 

Bridget had to weep, yet not for the world 
would she let her mother see her tears. 
The back gate was open, and a ubiquitous 
goat had found its way into the garden. 
Bridget rushed at the animal, and pursued 
it into the laurel bushes, the tears rolling 
down her cheeks. Once sheltered by the 
thick brush, she fell down on the grass, 


THE COAL FIELDS. 27 


weeping and sobbing, and tore it up by the 
roots in her grief. 

All the village girls came to the windows 
to peep enviously at Belle Purcel, as she and 
her tall husband and Bridget went to the 
railroad station on the morrow. Jack Hayes 
was at a saloon door when the trio passed; 
and after he had watched Belle out of sight, 
he ordered a glass of whiskey, “to keep him 
up,” he said; though what he meant, no one 
knew. 

“With all her fin’ry and grande’r,” said 
one of the girls, “she don’t look one bit better 
than poor Bid.” 

“Ah!” remarked Mrs. Nolan compassion- 
ately, when Bridget Purcel in tears had gone 
by her door, “that is a good girl, that Bridget. 
How she must love that sister of hers as jist 
went off on the train! See how she is crying, 
Plughie, the poor dear soul; though I don’t 
know but I never could like that Belle. A 
lucky man, Hughie, that will marry Bridget,” 
she added, glancing quickly at her son, who 
sat near the open window, and whose eyes 
were following the girl’s graceful figure. 

“Yes, a lucky and blessed man, a thousand 
times blessed, but she will marry some one 
better than a miner. Why, mam, that girl 
could hold her own in any society.” 


28 


THE LILY OF 


“That she could, and no trouble at all to 
her,” returned his mother; “still I used to 
think and have hopes. But, Hughie, did 
she say anything like that to you, son?” 

“Mam,” the big, broad fellow took the 
little woman in his arms, squeezed her and 
kissed her faded cheek, “you are like all 
women — too much for questioning.” 

No more letters from Belle. The Purcel 
family did not know even her whereabouts. 
Bridget sometimes thought that she was dead, 
and at times the awful picture of a murdered 
wife almost shattered even her strong nerves. 
But she was not one to worry, else the terrible 
suspense would have killed her. 

Her father was promoted to hoisting-engi- 
neer, and his work lightened. That was a 
relief to Bridget. She little thought that a 
day would come when she would wish her 
dear father had never seen the engine-house. 


CHAPTER IV. 


MARY AND MARTHA. 

A few stray snowflakes were falling from 
the leaden December sky. The air was cold 
and keen, and shrieked about the little coal 
region town of Montgomery. The roads were 
dumb with snow, and the wind tossed the 
freezing whiteness about the low stoops and 
the green-curtained windows of the houses. 
The streets of the little place were well-nigh 
deserted; only, here and there a woman, with 
a shawl on her head, might be seen throwing 
out a keg of ashes ; or a miner, with his dinner- 
can and bottle over his shoulder, trudging 
along, with clogs of snow clinging to his great 
nailed boots. None of the collieries was 
working; all the place was snow-bound. A 
small number of hardy laborers had braved 
the biting blast and had gone to their daily 
employment, but were obliged to return. 
One redfaced little breaker-boy was seen to 
pass by, alternately holding his ears with his 
ungloved hands, and putting his fingers under 
his arms to warm them. 

The snow had been swept from the little 


30 


THE LILY OF 


railroad station, but the wind was maliciously 
throwing it back again upon the platform. 
Despite the cold, a young man stood at a 
corner of the station, watching the door of 
the one waiting-room. He was young and 
rather good looking, though he had blue marks 
on his forehead — the insignia of the miner — 
and his hands were large, rough and scarred. 
His face was ruddy, his ears almost blue; he 
was “clothed with his breath,” yet be seemed 
oblivious of the cold. His eyes never for a 
moment left the door of the station. It was 
10 A. M., and a train was due; but most of 
the trains were late, being retarded by the 
snowstorm. At length there was a whistling 
in the east; the wind brought the unmusical 
sound early to his ears. As the door of the 
station opened, and he heard the murmur of 
voices, the young miner drew back. Evi- 
dently, he wished to see without being seen. 

With soft, gliding steps, two women came 
upon the platform. They wore a religious 
garb, the habit of Mother McAuley. One 
of these Sisters of Mercy was young and at- 
tractive, the typical nun of fiction; the other, 
homely, with a kind, patient face that told 
of long years of toil and suffering. They 
were followed by a bent woman in an old- 
fashioned bonnet and^frayed shawl, who 


THE COAL FIELDS. 31 


leaned on the arm of a black-robed maiden. 
Immediately after these came a man in the 
October of life, with a slight, pretty girl beside 
him. 

The eyes of the youth at the other end of 
the platform were fastened on the sombre- 
garbed maiden accompanying the faded wo- 
man. She was in the full bloom of youth — 
she did not look much over twenty — and was 
beautiful, with a calm, pure face. Her fore- 
head was high and wreathed with dark curls, 
her mouth like a baby’s; but there was pain 
in the face now, pain in the contracted brows, 
in the droop of the lips. Her eyes were 
charged with tears, as the train came nearer. 

“Good-bye, mam,” she sobbed. 

The woman leaned on her daughter’s heav- 
ing bosom. “Good-bye, Mary darlin’, good- 
bye. I know you won’t forget us when you’re 
far away.” 

“Good-bye, Mattie love.” Mary was kiss- 
ing her sister fondly. “Good-bye, pap.” 

The train was near a halt. 

The elder nun came swiftly to the weeping 
mother. “Good-bye, Mrs. Breen. I shall 
take good care of your child. She will be 
happy, I know, in the life she has chosen.” 

The train had stopped, and the nuns moved 
towards it. The young miner’s eye eagerly 


32 


THE LILY OF 


followed every movement of the beautiful 
sobbing girl. She was on the steps of the 
train, at the door now, and she had turned for 
a last look. She held the arm of one of the 
nuns as she gazed. 

Mary Breen was about to say farewell to 
the world forever, farewell to its joys, its 
pleasures; yet the struggle was a hard one. 
She knew not whether she would ever again 
see those dear ones; years make changes. 
She felt no regrets at leaving the sinful world ; 
the false glitter of its promises did not deceive 
her; but the thin woman, the stalwart man, 
the slender, pretty girl — these were a chain 
that was hard to break. She had heard the 
still, small voice that called her to enter the 
convent, and she had listened to its pleading. 

The young miner clenched his fists; his 
breath seemed to hurt him, as he looked at 
the wan, sweet face and trembling fingers. 
Another wave of her small white hand, and 
then the train bore her from sight. 

A woman, a beautiful woman, with all 
her life before her, had gone to join those 
noble, self-sacrificing souls that labor for 
their neighbor, that forget themselves, that 
nurse the body in the hope of drawing the 
soul nearer to God. Mary Breen was gone; 
but what cared the world? Saints, quietly 


THE COAL FIELDS. 33 


gliding along the path of sanctification, 
make no noise; we do not notice them; the 
sinners, tearing their way to perdition, at- 
tract our attention. 

Mrs. Breen leaned on her husband when 
the train had disappeared. Poor woman, she 
was quivering like an aspen. He, for the 
first time, noticed the young miner, who 
was now coming towards them. 

“Mr. Breen,” and he wrung the old man’s 
horny hand, “you have given up a jewel.” 

“God knows we have,” replied the mother, 
“but, Brian, there’s nothing too good for Him. 
Me darling’s gone, but, if I had me way, she’d 
not be back in the wicked old world. She 
can pray for us all where she’s gone to. It’s 
an honor to me to’ve raised such a child. 
When me eyes’re closed, and me hands’re 
still, I’ll have at least one to remember me 
before the altar. But, oh, it’s hard, it’s 
hard to give up my Mary! God be with her! 
If I had me way, she’d be just where she’s 
gone.” 

Brian Munley sighed. If he had had his 
way, Mary Breen would never — but it was 
too late now; and besides she did not love 
him. She was a woman to be loved, not to 
love. 

The sharp eyes of Martha Breen, the 


34 


THE LILY OF 


younger sister, had seen Brian Munley the 
first moment she came through the station 
doorway. She had surmised that he would 
be there; she knew how he loved her sister. 
She had noticed with sorrow the love in his 
eyes as he gazed at Mary, for Martha had 
given him her young heart; but she was too 
noble to be jealous. Ah, jealousy was not 
to be thought of. Had not her sister fled 
from the world and its snares ? Perhaps now, 
that Mary had gone, he might love her; per- 
haps when he realized that his love for Mary 
was vain, he might turn to her for consola- 
tion. She thanked God that he loved her 
sister, and not some one else whose love he 
might win. 

“It’s too cold for you here,” said Breen 
considerately to his wife; “you must come 
home.” 

He drew her shawl more tightly about her, 
for it was beginning to slip from her shoulders. 
She had forgotten the cold ; her mother’s love 
was crying out for the one that was gone. 

“You will come with us, Brian?” con- 
tinued Breen. 

Martha’s heart beat quickly, and a flush 
that the wind could not claim, came into her 
cheeks. Brian Munley would walk with her. 
He gave her his arm, as they went down the 


THE COAL FIELDS. 35 


slippery steps. She was too happy to talk. 
Even the howling wind was music in her ears. 
He spoke first: 

“You never took such a notion, I guess, 
Mattie, as going to the convent?” 

Tears almost came to her eyes; his words 
were more piercing than the cold. What 
stupids men are ! 

“No-o, Brian,” she faltered; “the convent’s 
not for me; I wouldn’t be happy there. I 
never was like our Mary; she was a saint 
from a baby.” 

He wished that Mary had been less saintly; 
if she had not been so much so, she might 
have returned his love. 

“No one ’uld ever think that me and Mary 
were sisters,” continued Martha; “we were 
so different. She was bright at school, I 
wasn’t; she loved books, I hated them. She 
was as happy as a lark when she was made 
school-teacher last term, but I couldn’t have 
the patience to study like her; always work- 
ing at algebra or something in that line. But 
I don’t think she was for this world, Brian.” 

Martha stopped, looked up into his face 
and almost cried with vexation; he was not 
listening to her. His brows were knit; a 
wistful look was in his eyes, and Martha knew 
where his thoughts were, but she could not 
be jealous. 


CHAPTER V. 


AN AWFUL NIGHT. 

The clock had just struck ten. Bridget 
Purcel, as she sat up in bed and rubbed her 
eyes, heard the ten beats. There was a noise 
downstairs as of some one stirring, and the 
loud tones of her mother’s voice came to her 
ears. She was now fully awake, and she 
became conscious of the fact that the colliery 
whistle was screaming at full blast. 

Bridget was not always in bed at ten o’clock; 
but it was Monday, and Monday always 
proved a hard day for Bridget. She was up 
at five on that morning to start in washing, 
and, having no washing machine, was obliged 
to use the old-fashioned washboard. As 
the woman next door said, no one at Mine 
Run used more “elbow grease” in a week 
than Bridget Purcel. 

But Bridget, tired as she had been on going 
to bed an hour before, now bright enough, 
jumped out of bed and slipped on her wrapper. 
She found her mother very much excited, but 
that was nothing new, for trifles excited Mrs. 
Purcel. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 37 


“ Biddy, God help us, the mines is on fire 
Don’t you hear the whistle?” One would 
have had to be very deaf not to hear it, for 
the whistle was shrieking as if in distress. 

“Come, Biddy, we must go to the head of 
the slope.” 

“Oh, mam, do stay at home. I’ll run down 
to the slope and will tell you all the news.” 

She knew what her mother was — a weak, 
nervous woman, and Bridget was fearful; 
for her brother was on the night shift and 
might be in the fire. Her father was night 
engineer at the Mine Run Colliery. 

“No, Biddy, how could I wait till yo’d come 
back? I must go with yo’.” 

Throwing a cloud over her own head and 
wrapping a shawl about her mother’s, Brid- 
get hurried from the house holding her mother’s 
hand. The night was dark, there being no 
moon. The sky near the colliery was heavy 
with a black cloud, which Bridget saw was 
smoke from the burning mine. Great God, 
it was the slope in which her brother Larry 
worked! 

“Hurry, mam!” cried the frightened girl; 
but the injunction was not needed, for anx- 
iety had lent wings to Mrs. Purcel’s feet. 
Along the dark road, muddy and sloppy 
from the rain, stumbling, breathless, their 


38 


THE LILY OF 


hearts beating wildly, the mother and daugh- 
ter ran. They reached the head of the slope 
where a motley crowd had gathered — women 
bare-headed, with unbuttoned shoes and 
dresses open at the neck; a few half-grown girls, 
with clouds or shawls on their heads; one or 
two children with sleepy, round eyes; a large 
number of men, young, middle-aged and old. 

“Larry! O, Mother of God, is my Larry 
safe?” cried Mrs. Purcel, with a mother’s 
anxiety. 

“Yes,” whispered a woman, consolingly. 

The smoke was now pouring in a denser 
cloud from the mouth of the slope, and the 
heat was increasing. The hoisting-engine 
was in motion, and a car was on its way to the 
surface. Six men were in the car, all over- 
come with smoke. Mrs. Purcel recognized 
among the unconscious men, who were a 
rescuing crew, the features of her oldest son, 
Christy, who was married and was foreman 
of the mine. She had not thought of his 
being in danger; she knew that it was un- 
usual for him to be around the mines at night. 
She helped to recover him. 

“Send down the wagon again!” shouted one 
of the men to the engineer, Mrs. Purcel’ s 
husband. “All the men ain’t up. Good God, 
our Martin’s down there yet!” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 39 


The engineer obeyed, and the car had 
just begun its descent when a sheet of flame 
shot from the mouth of the slope into the air. 
A shriek of despair and horror went up from 
the throats of all present. 

“God help any poor soul what’s in that 
mines,” said a woman who stood by. 

The car had not reached the bottom of the 
slope when two raps on the bell- wire came to 
the engine-house. Clang! Clang ! a signal for 
hoisting. Everybody heard the two raps, 
for they rang out distinct and clear. The 
engineer was hoisting the car to the surface, 
when the tar-covered wire rope caught fire, 
and the flames were spreading to the engine- 
house. 

“Stop the engine for God’s sake!” called a 
miner, “er the engine-house’ll take fire, and 
spread to the supply-house, and we’ll all 
be blown t’ smithereens!” 

The supply-house, a small building ad- 
joining the engine-house, was filled with kegs 
of powder, dynamite and dualin caps. 

The engineer, Mike Purcel, brought the 
engine to a halt at once, and came with a 
very white face and trembling hands to the 
door of the engine-house. He feared that 
his son Larry was on the ill-fated car, and 
when he saw the flames shooting fifty feet 


40 


THE LILY OF 


into the air, he knew that any one on the car, 
in the midst of such a fire, was dead. In his 
excitement he forgot that the two raps came 
before the car had reached the bottom of the 
slope, where the men were thought to be; so 
how could they be on the car when it had not 
reached them? And why should they wish 
to “rap” it up, if it had not come sufficiently 
near for them to board it ? 

“Start up the engine, yo’ d — n coward!” 
cried Mat Holahan, seizing Purcel by the 
shoulder. “Like as not, our Martin’s on 
that wagon!” 

“But the supply-house, Mat ? And if any 
one’s on that wagon, they’re dead now; who 
could live a second in such flame?” 

“To the divil with the supply-house ! H’ist 
that wagon, I say, if yo’re wise.” Holahan 
was drunk; he had just left a tavern when 
the alarm of fire was given; and his red eyes 
were bad to look at. “H’ist it! h’ist it! 
don’t stand there like a fool; our Martin’s 
on it.” 

“So is my Larry; but they’re dead. I dare 
not h’ist. The engine-house’ d take fire, the 
supply-house’d blow up, and the whole of 
us with it.” 

“Yo’ won’t h’ist it?” 

“No, only a lunatic would.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 41 


“Then you’ll meet the same death as my 
brother, yo’ white-livered — ! 

No one noticed the two men, so great was 
the confusion, till a girlish scream rang out. 
Then all eyes were turned to the very edge of 
the mine’s mouth, where two men struggled 
for the mastery, and a lithe girl, with unbound 
hair, clung to them, crying out for assistance. 
The younger of the men brutally struck the 
girl, and she fell across the hot car-tracks. 
It was done in an instant, and before any one 
had time to interfere. 

There was a shriek from the women, a 
groan of horror from the men. They saw 
the clenched figures of Mat Holahan and 
Mike Purcel stand for a second on the verge 
of the fiery abyss, then topple over and go 
down into the awful depths. A number of 
women fainted, among them Mrs. Purcel, 
who had been kneeling by the side of her now 
conscious son, Christy. Bridget Purcel, with 
a cry which went to all hearts, staggered to 
her feet and ran to the edge of the slope, so 
close to the flame that it singed her long 
dark hair. 

“O pap, pap!” It was a moan, a sob, a 
cry of hopeless agony. “Gone to such a 
death! O God, be merciful to those poor 
souls!” 


42 


THE LILY OF 


She felt a strong, firm arm about her, and 
her brother Christy’s voice said: 

“Bridget, be brave; it’s hard, but hold up 
under it for awhile; look to mam, I have 
other things to do, and you are all she has to 
attend her.” Then there was a sob from 
the strong man. “O pap, O Larry!” 

Bridget, with blood trickling from a 
wound in her forehead, caused by Mat Hol- 
ahan’s fist, went to where her mother lay in 
the arms of a neighboring woman. Bridget 
knelt down in the mud and took her mother’s 
unconscious head in her lap. 

“O mam, God give you strength,” she 
moaned, “strength to bear up.” Tears fell 
on Mrs. Purcel’s wrinkled face. “O pap, pap, 
and Larry!” 

And there in the mud, with her hands on 
her mother’s brow, with her eyes turned up 
to the pitiless sky; there where a dense cloud 
of smoke hung between earth and heaven 
as if God were angry; there where the 
red flames roared and shot high into the air, 
there where women were weeping and praying 
and men were groaning; there Bridget sent 
a prayer for strength for herself and her 
mother to the Seat of Mercy, a prayer for 
the souls that had been hurried into eter- 
nity with scarcely a minute’s warning. God 


THE COAL FIELDS. 43 


seemed very near to Bridget in that hour 
when to others He never seemed farther away. 
But, ah, how often is He near us, and our 
hearts give us no warning of His proximity! 

Two months had gone by. The Mine Run 
fire had been extinguished. The bodies of 
the unfortunate victims were recovered. All 
had been suffocated, save Mike Purcel and 
Mat Holahan. The recovery of the bodies 
gave but little consolation to the sore hearts 
of the mourning wives, mothers and sisters; 
for the decomposed corpes could not be looked 
upon, and of Mike Purcel and Mat Holahan 
only a few charred bones remained. The 
car which stood in the fiery slope, and on 
which Larry Purcel and the other men were 
supposed to have died, was found to be empty. 
All the wood had burned away from the car, 
but its sheet-iron bottom and sides remained. 
The rapping of the bell-wire was caused by 
timber falling upon it. 

Mrs. Purcel was a broken woman; life for 
her without her husband was almost a drag. 
But Bridget hid her own grief, and spared 
no pains to make her mother happy. 


CHAPTER VI. 


DRIFTING ASUNDER. 

That winter passed away. The hills were 
green again ; the trees were beginning to push 
forth young buds; spring had come. The 
buds became leaves and blossoms. The trees 
bent beneath the weight of their fruits. 
The harvest time arrived. The trees were 
again bare of fruits; soon they lost their 
leaves, and stood stark and unprotected from 
the biting winds. Anon snow fell, and in 
mercy hid the frost-seared grass from sight. 

It was a bleak, wintry afternoon. The 
train from the city had dragged its cars 
through the snow into the Mine Run station. 
A woman alighted heavily veiled. She was 
richly dressed, and everybody was curious 
to see her face, but she noticed no one. With 
indolent grace, she wended her way through 
the snow towards the colliery. Across the 
bridge she went, her rustling skirts sweeping 
the dirty snow; past the old white- washed 
pay-office through whose window the long- 
necked clerk was staring out; gathered up 
her skirts gracefully and leaped lightly across 
a ditch; glided by the door of the old black- 
smith shop; trailed along the car-road, by 


THE COAL FIELDS. 45 


the sides of mud-grimed mine cars, filled 
with coal and rock and worn-out timber. 
On majestically went that sylph-like figure till it 
reached the old drift. It was just four o’clock. 
The men used to come home about this time. 

She sat upon a smooth piece of timber and 
hummed a gay air. Man after man came out 
of the drift, and she studied every face intent- 
ly. At last she grew weary; a half-hour had 
passed, yet the one whom she sought had not 
come. The night-shift men were arriving. 
Four or five stood at a distance, wondering 
who the veiled stranger with the bright hair 
could be. Amongst them there was one very 
handsome and gallant-looking, and he stared 
more than the rest at the woman. She arose 
at length, and putting up her veil, approached 
and addressed the men. 

“Has Mike Purcel gone home?” she asked. 

The handsome youth tried to prevent an 
over-eager companion from speaking, but 
was too late. 

“Why, lady, that man’s dead a year!” 

An agonizing shriek pierced the cold air, 
a shriek that rang loud and clear above the 
lumbering noise which a trip of cars made on 
its way to the slope. A little figure, with a 
death-like face, swayed and would have 
fallen, had not the handsome young miner 
caught her in his arms. 


46 


THE LILY OF 


“Whew, Jack Hayes is in luck, to have 
sich a load as her to hold,” whispered a strip- 
ling to an old miner. 

“Shut up, you clown,” growled the old 
miner, his hoarse voice hoarser than usual 
and a tear in his eye. “That’s Mike Purcel’s 
daughter.” 

Jack Hayes had just donned a suit of clean 
working clothes, yet as he held Belle against 
his breast, her head to his shoulder, he 
seemed to fear that he would soil her rich 
garments. 

“I’ll take her home, boys,” he said, his eyes 
bright as if with tears; “it ain’t far from here.” 

He hurried along swiftly with his precious 
burden ; his eyes glued to the bewitching face, 
so that he stumbled and almost fell several 
times. 

“She’d never know,” he thought, as he 
passed by the oil-house, “and I don’t care 
who sees.” 

Like a flash, he bent down his head and 
pressed a kiss on her ruby lips. Then he 
took her in at Purcel’s gate and laid her in 
Bridget’s arms. 

She was in the old bedroom again, moaning 
and crying and sobbing and praying, poor 
Belle. Bridget soothed her with kind, gentle 
words and caressed her cold hands. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 47 


“He is in heaven, Belle dear; he was always 
a saint. He is better off; his lot in this world 
was hard. He has gone from the dark, awful 
mines to God’s bright throne.” 

“But how came he to be running the hoist- 
ing-engine, Bridget ? — he used to be a pumps’ 
man, and worked in the old drift.” 

“He was promoted, dear. I did not know 
your address, else I could have written and 
told you all the news; even the news of his 
sad death. Larry — oh, don’t take it so hard, 
dear, — was speaking of you on the afternoon 
of that fatal day, before he went to work.” 

“I deserve all this,” moaned Belle. “Per- 
haps in my prosperity, I neglected my dear 
ones.” 

Next day they went to the grave of their 
father and brother. It was almost hidden 
in a snowdrift, only the top of the headstone 
being visible. 

“Just a minute, Belle. I’ll get a shovel 
from the tool-house and clean the grave.” 

When Bridget returned, she found Belle 
kneeling half buried in the snow, with her 
forehead leaning on the cold tombstone. 

“I brought this for him,” said Belle, draw- 
ing a large watch from her bosom; “I knew 
dear pap always wanted a gold watch.” 

“Bridget,” said Belle, when they were 


48 


THE LILY OF 


sitting before a blazing fire in the kitchen, 
‘ ‘there is no danger of our being overheard ? 
Mam is out ?” 

“Yes, down at Mrs. Nolan’s. No, there 
is no danger, and to prevent surprise, I will 
turn the key in the door.” 

“O Bridget, if you only knew how for a 
year I longed to see you and pap! My hus- 
band I could never understand. At times 
he was very kind, too kind to me, then he 
would be unreasonably jealous and even 
strike me. But he loves me, loves me too 
well. He is in prison for his love of me. 
But I must not anticipate. 

“Sometimes it seemed that he could not 
restrain himself, and I suffered; but he was 
always sorry afterwards. I married him only 
for his wealth. I even disliked him before 
I became his wife, and I grew to hate him — 
or, at least, near to hating him. Then came 
our little one. O Bridget, let me lay my 
poor giddy head on your bosom and weep!” 

Bridget consoled her, and she went on: 

“My darling was so little and so beautiful; 
little like me, beautiful like you, dear, with 
dark hair and dark eyes. My husband al- 
most raved about her. Perhaps she would 
have drawn me to her father, but her, — O 
Biddy, God took her away from me. He 


THE COAL FIELDS. 49 


took her away, and I stormed and cried out 
against Him. Don’t shudder, darling; I was 
almost insane at the time. 

“I quarreled with my husband. I told him 
that I loathed him, that I should never love 
him. He turned ashy-pale, and fell on a 
sofa. O God, forgive me, I can even now 
see him pressing his hands to his poor head. 
He arose, and there was murder in his face. 

“ ‘ ‘God! and what I have done for you! I 
have swindled and forged to put jewels on 
your throat, to robe you like a queen. I am 
at this moment in the clutches of the law. 
I came to-night to ask consolation from my 
wife, and she tells me that I have nothing 
but her hate. Only one thing saves you 
from death and prevents me from going to 
prison for murder as well as forgery — you 
love no other man.’ 

“He was taken to prison next day, and I 
went to live with his mother, who is very 
fond of me. Then, Bridget, I met a man 
whom I love, whom I almost worship.” 

Bridget’s face was white, and her hands 
were cold. “But, Belle, you have not for- 
gotten the teachings of our faith ; the teachings 
that even nature herself impresses upon us. 
You do not believe in divorce. This love of 
yours is born of darkness; it means ruin to 


50 


THE LILY OF 


your immortal soul. O Belle !” She arose 
in her pure womanhood and took her sister 
in her arms. “Your soul is as dear to me as 
my own. Let me save you; do not return 
to the city.” 

Then Bridget, strong, brave Bridget, broke 
down and wept hopelessly. “But what can 
I do if you remain at home! My hands are 
tied. Brother Andy is married, and Willy’s 
few dollars from the breaker won’t keep him- 
self, let alone mam. I have worked and 
worked up here, but the pay is so poor. I tried 
to get a school to teach, and Hugh Nolan 
helped me, but I failed. I must go to the 
city before many months have passed.” 

“Bridget, we part at Mine Run,” said 
Belle, with terrible earnestness. “You must 
not inquire about me. If you search for me, 
you may find heartache. The world is a 
great wide ocean; I shall float on its bosom 
for a time, then sink into oblivion. You and 
I must drift asunder, dear, though it break 
both our hearts. There is no telling what I 
may do. But pray for me.” 

Next day Belle went to the city, alone. 
Small wonder poor Bridget wept so bitterly 
at the parting; perhaps her heart told her 
that dreary months and years would pass 
before they met again. 


CHAPTER VII. 


WHAT’S IN A NAME? 

“Mam,” said Bridget one spring morning, 
“there is but little chance around here for a 
girl; I must go to the city.” 

“Well, you know best, Biddy dear; but how 
I’ll miss you!” wiping a tear from her eye. 
“Maybe you could get into one of them big 
stores and earn lots of money, fer your father 
certainly give you bojk-l’arning enough, and 
you ain’t no stupid.” 

So it was settled. Bridget wrote to Katie 
Finley in the city, and she secured a position 
as upstairs girl for her. Then Bridget said 
farewell to Mine Run, where she had spent 
her life, and went to earn her bread among 
strangers. It was hard to say good-bye to 
the old scenes, even if only for a time, and 
Bridget experienced a sinking at her heart. 
When she pressed her face against the train 
window, that the other passengers might 
not see her tear-dimmed eyes, she felt that, 
despite her nineteen years, she was very 
much of a baby. 


52 


THE LILY OF 


One last look at the towering, beetled- 
browed mountains which girded the little 
town round about ; at the dear old church ; at 
the poor homes of the miners, with the black 
roofs, weather-beaten sides and crazy porches ; 
at the little old house in which she had been 
so happy, and which like a frightened owl, 
stared with its windows at the road. 

Then she was whirled miles and miles 
away from Mine Run — among lofty coal 
banks, with slimy green, yellow and black 
streams flowing at their feet; through dreary 
swamps, with moss-covered logs, high brush 
and languid water lilies; through desolate 
wastes of coal culm, which had hardened in 
the sun’s rays, and in which dead white 
tree trunks stood; through pretty towns and 
thick woods, over brooks and creeks, along 
by green fields and smiling meadows — till 
she reached the enchanted garden of her 
fancy, the city. 

She was little more than a week in the city 
before she partly conquered her homesick- 
ness, for Bridget had the courage of a Camilla. 
She lived with an old woman and her daugh- 
ter. The work was hard, the pay small, yet 
to the poor coal region girl her labor was 
extremely light in comparison with what it 
had been. Though the mother and daughter 


THE COAL FIELDS. 53 


were very wealthy, each in her own right, 
they made poor Bridget even riddle the ashes, 
to pick out any scraps of coal she might find 
therein. 

Often in the beginning, when she was home- 
sick, she was tempted to toss her few belong- 
ings into her doll’s trunk, and go back to 
Mine Run. At such times, the thought of 
her widowed mother who needed support, 
furnished a new stimulus to her. Bridget 
wondered if the mistresses when they swept 
down into the kitchen, ever dreamed of how 
much suffering their unkind words caused 
the sensitive, weary, homesick heart of their 
servant. Surely they did not, or no woman 
could so afflict another. 

Katie Finley soon discovered that all was 
not well with Bridget, and found a new place 
for her. Bridget was to be chambermaid for 
the Weyland family. Katie was cook there. 

The Weylands, a widowed mother and 
daughter Aurora, resided in the suburbs of 
the city. The latter was engaged to her first 
cousin, Wayne Carter, a poor artist, who 
being an orphan, stayed with the Weylands. 

Aurora Weyland was not beautiful, far 
from it, alas! Despite her name, she was not 
in the early dawn of her womanhood ; for she 
had made her debut so long ago that she never 


54 


THE LILY OF 


mentioned anything about it. Her friends 
tried to say that her hair was Titian, but her 
foes more truthfully styled it red. She never 
spoke about her complexion, nor did she dare 
to appear decollette, and she detested short 
sleeves. Her figure might have been pass- 
able, had her walk not been so very awkward. 
This was the woman whom debonair, beauty- 
loving, penniless Wayne Carter was to wed 
in a fortnight. 

Strangers moved into the cottage next to 
the Weylands’. On the evening of their ar- 
rival, the coachman and cook were chatting 
about their neighbors. 

“Yes,” said he, “their name is Weyland, 
and the lady is tall and very handsome, like 
a queen. One of the girls is stumpy and red- 
haired. I don’t think we’ll care for her at 
all, she is so much like a lemon with her cross 
face. But there’s the lady now.” 

Bridget was in the garden; and it turned 
out that the “stumpy and red-haired” one 
was Aurora, while the “tall and very hand- 
some” one was Bridget. 

That same evening another unsought com- 
pliment was paid to Bridget. She was 
dressed in a white lawn and had gone down 
the graveled walk to the front gate. Mrs. 
Weyland and a friend, a stylishly attired lady, 


THE COAL FIELDS. 55 


evidently a stranger, sat together on the porch. 

“Ah, Miss Aurora, I presume? What a 
charming girl she is!” drawled the visitor. 

“No, that’s our servant,” returned the mis- 
tress with a frown. 

Mrs. Weyland asked Bridget to change 
her name. “I do so hate Bridget,” she said; 
“let me call you something else.” 

A flash came into Bridget’s fine Irish blue 
eyes. “Bridget is my name, Mrs. Weyland,” 
she returned sharply. “I will have no other.” 

Mrs. Weyland took no pains to conceal her 
displeasure, but Bridget was obdurate. 

“You ought to have done it for peace’ sake 
and to please her, Bridget,” said Katie Finley. 
“She’s a funny woman to understand, is 
Mrs. Weyland. Besides, I know two girls 
who have changed their name; Bridget Gor- 
man is now Belle, and Bridget O’Hara is 
now Loretta. They did it to save our holy 
St. Bridget from being made fun of.” 

“Katie,” answered the pious Bridget, “how 
could I ever face dear St. Bridget in heaven, 
if I were ashamed to bear her name on earth ? 
Let them say what they like, let them make 
fun of me if they will ; but Bridget I was chris- 
tened, and Bridget I’ll be when the holy oils 
are put on me for the last time, if God and 
St. Bridget think me worthy of such grace. 


56 


THE LILY OF 


Why, pap would blush for me in heaven, if 
he knew I did such a cowardly thing. 

“I know a girl who changed her name, 
and it brought her to grief. She is married 
now to a nice young man. She was Bridget 
Shea, but she thought Isabel prettier than 
Bridget. The pastor was away from home 
the first Sunday she was called out, and the 
curate mentioned her as Miss Isabel Shea. 
Next Sunday when the pastor gave a second 
‘call out/ he mentioned her as Miss Bridget 
Shea, much to the girl’s confusion.” 

A few days later, Nettie Tregellas, a young 
friend of the Weylands, was chatting with 
Mrs. Weyland. (Nettie, by the way, was a 
music teacher; and though she had the airs 
of a duchess, was too poor to buy a piano, so 
Aurora Weyland allowed her to practise on 
hers.) 

“Who is the tall, beautiful young lady that 
admits me every day I ring? She is so re- 
fined and so gentle; opens the piano, draws 
aside the curtains, and makes everything so 
pleasant for me. Such a figure as she has,” 
said Miss Tregellas to Mrs. Weyland. 

“Why, that’s Bridget. I’m glad you like 
her, everybody does.” 

“Oh, no,” with a little toss of her yellow 
head and a slight contraction of her arched 


THE COAL FIELDS. 57 


brows, “this cannot be Bridget to whom I 
refer.” 

“A tall young woman, a roll of wavy black 
hair, a delicate little aquiline nose, dazzling 
teeth ?” 

“Yes, that’s the one.” 

“Well, she is Bridget.” 

Miss Tregellas was horrified. “Why don’t 
you ask her to change that horrid name?” 

Bridget, besides her upstairs work, was 
waitress for the Weylands. Mrs. Weyland 
was as proud of her as she was of her rarest 
and best china. It is so pleasant to have 
a waitress ornamental as well as useful. 

Wayne Carter, in a spirit of confidence, 
told one of his chums, Norman Stroud, that 
he was in love with the waitress’ graceful 
hands. The chum winked. 

“Don’t let your betrothed learn about your 
admiration for this handsome Biddy, else 
there’ll be a storm. And look out for your- 
self, old fellow. From your glowing de- 
scription, I judge that Bridget has made an 
extraordinary impression, and if she’s clever 
— well! But, by the way, have you made 
any advances?” 

“Advances! She hardly notices me. 
That girl’s got the pride of Lucifer; she’s a 
Bridget in name only; and to tell you the 


58 


THE LILY OF 


truth, old pard, I am deuced fond of her — 
nearly heels over head in love with her.” 

“He, he! Don’t let Aurora Weyland hear 
you say that, Wayne. By Jove, I must get 
a glimpse of this paragon of beauty and virtue, 
this Desdemona masquerading as Bridget; 
give me a tip to dinner, say to-morrow even- 
ing. Jingo, you seem to have a sweet- 
heart for every day in the year, Wayne. You 
have got over your infatuation for that pretty 
witch of an actress, Lalite Frazer.” 

“Fah, she merely fascinated me. But I’m 
frank; I love Bridget.” 

Wayne Carter failed to notice the evil look 
in Norman Stroud’s eyes, nor did he hear 
him mutter under his breath: 

“We are quits now, my fine fellow, my 
fortune-hunter. You took Lalite Frazer from 
me, the only woman I ever really cared for; 
but every dog has his day. Wait!” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


MYSTERIOUS LOUISE. 

One day as Bridget was ironing some of 
Miss Aurora’s white skirts, she heard a light 
step, and a woman came into the laundry. 
She was not young, yet not old. Her face 
was thin, but not angular; her mouth was 
large, but sweet; her eyes big and sad- look- 
ing; her complexion clear with a faint trace 
of pink in either cheek. She was about 
medium height and was dressed all in black; 
her hat, a little, old-fashioned affair, covered 
with a black veil. She certainly was no 
ordinary person. Bridget wished her good 
afternoon. 

“Are you the new girl?” she said. “Katie 
Finley has told me that your name is Bridget 
Purcel. Well, if you are at all like the girl 
whose place you have taken, you and I shall 
be friends.” 

Bridget hoped she was very much like the 
girl who had left, and she said so. Here 
Katie entered with a few of Mrs. Weyland’s 
filmy white petticoats. She glanced coldly 
at the woman in black, and Bridget noticed 


60 


THE LILY OF 


that the stranger shrank back as if from a 
frosty blast. 

“ Katie, you might introduce me to this 
lady.” Bridget said “lady” advisedly, for 
truly that woman was a lady. 

“Louise is the only name she has here,” 
returned Katie, in a chilling tone; then she 
returned to the kitchen. 

“I think Katie must not be well to-day,” 
Bridget said apologetically to the woman in 
black, “else she would not act so.” 

“It is nothing new for her to treat me in 
that way, Bridget.” 

Bridget was pleased that she did not call 
her “Miss Purcel.” Louise and she were al- 
ready friends; Bridget had never met a wo- 
man so fascinating. Bridget sent her friend 
a cup of tea and a bit of toast which she en- 
joyed. As Bridget ironed on, Louise chatted 
in beautiful language about different devo- 
tions of the Church till Bridget began to 
think that she must have read the lives of all 
the saints. Her way of preaching was 
simply irresistible, so chatty was it. She 
then took out a worn little prayer-book, and 
silently read from it for some time. 

That night when Katie and Bridget were 
alone at supper, Bridget said: “My, I think 
you treated that woman, Louise, very coldly 
to-day.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 61 

“I know I did, but I have no respect for 
her.” 

“No respect for her! Why, Katie, I can’t 
help but respect her.” 

“That is because you don’t know her. 
Women in convents ought to stay there, and 
not leave them,” she added significantly. 

“You don’t mean to say that she was a nun, 
Katie.” 

“Oh, Bridget, you goose, of course, I meant 
that she was the woman who swept cobwebs 
from the moon. But you will find out, if 
you live long enough, that there are lots of 
people in this world who won’t have ‘St.’ 
before their names after death.” 

In the many years after that night, did 
Bridget find to her cost that Katie Finley’s 
words were ever coming true. “Alas! What 
are we doing all our lives... but unlearning 
the world’s poetry and attaining to its prose.” 

The black-robed woman came to see Brid- 
get two or three times every week. Bridget 
grew fonder of her, and used to long for her 
visits. One time she noticed that Louise 
had long thin ropes with her, and on in- 
quiring learned that they were cords of St. 
Francis. 

“I sell them,” she explained, “for I find 
it hard sometimes to make ends meet.” 


62 


THE LILY OF 


“I must have one, ,, Bridget said. Louise 
would accept no money for it. 

“Take it to Father Norbert, he will bless 
it for you, but don’t tell him where you got it.” 

Katie continued in her unfriendly treat- 
ment of Louise, but she never seemed to be 
angry with Katie. 

“Katie is a good girl at heart,” she told 
Bridget. “Her virtues are many. She is 
simple. Her home training was good, but 
it lacked one requisite — the overlooking of an- 
other’s faults. She would not do wrong her- 
self, so she has no pity for any one who may err. 
We are too hard with one another. O child, 
Christ was not that way. Did He spurn 
from his pure feet Magdalen, that daughter of 
sin? Did He, Purity itself, cast the first 
stone at the woman taken in adultery ? Did 
He scornfully draw aside His garments and 
pass by the sin-stained Samaritan woman ? 

“Katie is a good girl, Bridget dear, but 
not a kind one. Oh, our unkindness; our 
biting, stinging words; our cruel, discourag- 
ing looks; our cynical smiles, which are more 
than blows! Oh, if we but knew the value 
of our kind interpretations, of our cheering 
smiles, of our gentle, soothing words! What 
a grand old world this would be if there were 
more kindness in it ! Many a saint in heaven 


THE COAL FIELDS. 63 


has been sent thither by a cheering word. 
Many a soul that is lost and shut out from 
God’s sight forever, would be a shining light 
in that land beyond the grave, had some one 
said a kind word at the proper time, and left 
a cruel word unspoken.” 

She was weeping now very softly. “So 
many have been unkind to me, Bridget; so 
very few kind to me. It was unkindness, 
that left me as I am to-day — not my own 
unkindness, but another’s. I was weak, and 
a few unkind words changed my whole life.” 
Bridget waited for her to tell something of 
her past life. “Pray for me, Bridget, pray 
often for me; I need your good prayers. 
Sometime, but not now, I shall tell you my 
story. There must be a change in my life 
soon. I will not always be thus.” 

She never after that made any mention of 
her past life. 

One afternoon Bridget was frying fish. It 
was Katie’s “day out,” and Bridget was cook 
till her return. The door bell rang, and 
Bridget hurried to the street door. Some of 
the lard had splashed on her apron, so she 
thought she would peep through the window 
to see who the caller was before she opened 
the door. She gently drew aside the curtain 
and saw Louise on the porch. Then she 


64 


THE LILY OF 


remembered that the gate at the rear of the 
house was locked. She hastily let the cur- 
tain fall and went to open the door. 

The smell of burning fish came to her nos- 
trils; she had left the frying-pan on the stove. 
She ran to the kitchen just in time to save the 
fish from becoming a holocaust. Laughing 
at her mistake, she opened the front door and 
looked out. Louise was vanishing around 
the corner. Doubtless she had seen Bridget 
at the window and had certainly heard her 
run to the kitchen. Perhaps she thought 
that Bridget had grown tired of her and no 
longer cared for her society. She was so 
accustomed to being slighted that such con- 
duct on Bridget’s part would pain, but not 
astonish her. 

Bridget waited, but Louise came no more. 
Bridget tried to fathom the mystery. Per- 
haps the “change” of which Louise spoke 
had been brought to pass. Perhaps she fell 
ill, she was so delicate. Perhaps she died. 
But day after day went by, and still Louise 
came not. 


CHAPTER IX. 


“THE MINER’S WIFE.” 

Aurora Weyland took to Bridget at once 
and was so very kind that Bridget commenced 
thinking she had found her way into Paradise. 
No more dusty, greasy mining clothes to 
wash, no more socks to darn, no water of 
any account to carry, no immense ironings, 
no long trips to neighboring stores for pro- 
visions, as had been her lot at home. 

She often swept Wayne Carter’s studio, 
and stood amazed at his pictures, for he had 
real talent. Sometimes he and Aurora talked 
with her, and were surprised to find her 
so bright and intelligent. 

“She’s a splendid conversationalist, Rora,” 
said Wayne; “she’s almost as good as you are, 
and that is saying a great deal, for if you are 
anything at all, you are a finished talker.” 

Bridget was sharp; she soon saw that 
Aurora was much fonder of Wayne than he 
was of her, but it never entered the simple 
girl’s mind that he could be marrying Aurora 
for her money. She thought that they being 
cousins and having been raised side by side, 


66 


THE LILY OF 


their love grew up with them. But she her- 
self would not care to marry her first cousin. 

Wayne always smiled when he met Bridget 
alone, and his white teeth under his black 
mustache looked very pleasant. He paid her 
many compliments, at all of which she 
laughed. 

One evening when Bridget was walking 
through the beautiful grounds, Aurora, who 
was then Mrs. Carter, came to her. 

“Such a pretty picture you make here, 
Bridget, in your white dress! Oh, dear, if 
I only had your beauty, how much more I 
could enjoy life! You can wear anything at 
all. If I had such a figure, what gowns I 
could display!” 

“Yes, I may look well, Mrs. Carter,” re- 
plied Bridget, “but I am only to be looked at, 
nothing more. I do not know French; I 
do not embroider skilfully; I cannot play a 
chord on one musical instrument; I cannot 
look at a flower or bird, and then take out 
my brush and copy it. So you see you are 
luckier than I am.” 

“O Bridget, what a pity you could not have 
had more education; I think you would be 
very brilliant.” 

“Perhaps I might, and perhaps I might 
not. My dear father gave me as much edu- 


THE COAL FIELDS. 67 


cation as he could, and I was fine at mathe- 
matics. How I used to devour books ! Really 
Mrs. Carter, I often reflect that roughs who 
are put into charitable homes or educational 
institutions are very fortunate. Think of 
young men and women wasting themselves 
because they have no chance for an education.’ 

“Don’t say ‘wasting themselves,’ Bridget, 
if they are like you; how can they waste 
themselves when they spread such sunshine 
about those with whom they come in contact !” 

“You are very kind, too kind, Mrs. Carter.” 

“I am only just, Bridget. I really envy the 
man who will lead you to the altar.” 

“I don’t,” was the laughing rejoinder, “I 
pity him; you don’t know me.” 

“Now,” said Mrs. Carter, “I need not tell 
you that Wayne is doing very well with his 
pictures, and I am certain that you rejoice 
with him and me. I am very proud of my 
husband, Bridget. You like him, don’t you ?” 

“Yes,” said Bridget rather coldly, but very 
politely, for she did not like Wayne Carter. 
She had not been long enough with society 
men and women to fib readily. 

“He is going to paint a picture that will 
make his fame, Bridget. Won’t it be grand 
when I wake up some morning to find 
my husbandf famous ! You must assist him, 
Bridget, he says.” 


68 


THE LILY OF 


“I assist him! How can I but by keeping 
his studio fairly tidy?” 

“Oh, you can greatly assist him by posing 
and you will, won’t you ?” 

“Yes, since you ask me.” 

Bridget posed as “The Miner’s Wife.” 

“The most natural picture, I think, would 
be the wife filling her husband’s dinner-can,” 
she suggested. 

And Carter immediately agreed with her. 

As the picture slowly came to life under the 
artist’s brush, his wife was wont to sit in his 
studio and study Bridget’s lovely face. Both 
were very kind to the model, and after each 
sitting, Mrs. Carter always walked with 
Bridget in the garden. 

“But you will never be a miner’s wife, my 
dear girl, will you?” 

Bridget blushed. “Perhaps, Mrs. Carter. 
But no miner has ever asked me to be his 
wife.” She was thinking of Hugh Nolan. 
How she longed to see him again ! But very 
likely he cared nothing for her. 

On a bright afternoon in June, Bridget 
was standing alone in a large open field that 
touched the Weyland grounds. She had 
just finished posing for “The Miner’s Wife,” 
and the artist was admiring the offspring of 
his brush. Mrs. Carter, not feeling well, 


THE COAL FIELDS. 69 


had gone to bed. Bridget stood in the long 
grass, the bright-eyed daisies and their pink- 
eyed sisters, the clover blossoms, looking up 
at her. She seldom day-dreamed among the 
well-kept beds and carefully cultured flowers 
of the Weyland garden; she liked to go out 
into nature’s realm, where man’s cunning 
hand had no part. She was not like other 
girls; few had her simplicity and simple tastes. 
Her thoughts were at Mine Run. 

“If I only knew he cared for me, I should 
not mind; but he may marry some one else.” 

She heard the grass rustle behind her, and, 
turning saw Wayne Carter, hat in hand 
bowing before her. Her color changed; she 
instinctively disliked this man. 

“You look like a duchess out here,” he 
said; “not very much like a miner’s wife.” 
She smiled so very chillingly that he ceased 
to compliment at once. “But you will never 
be a miner’s wife, I dare say?” he added. 

“For that matter, I may never be any man’s 
wife,” she retorted. She threw back her 
head and shot a cold glance at him. 

“Bridget ! Bridget ! don’t you see I love you ! 
You have set my soul on fire.” 

“Your wife should have done that sir, else, 
you should not have married her.” 

“But she did not. Bridget, be mine.” 


70 


THE LILY OF 

He was very earnest and he came close to her. 

‘‘Man, are you insane ? Your wife is 
living.” 

“But that need not interfere. Bridget, I 
love you madly. Stay!” for she was walking 
swiftly in the direction of the house. “Say 
that you love me, or will learn to love me. 
I will dress you like a queen, I will shower 
jewels upon you.” 

“Yes, with your wife’s money,” she said 
bitterly, but sadly. Poor Aurora! “And I 
might say, sir, that if she is at all like me, 
and finds out about this nonsense of yours, 
she will close her purse against you.” 

“Ha!” he returned, “you fear that Aurora 
will not give me her fortune. But she need 
not know of our love. One-half my life in a 
cottage with you, Bridget, the other half 
with cold Aurora.” 

Bridget faced him, just as he attempted 
to embrace her. The weak artist was no 
match for the steel-sinewed mine girl. Be- 
fore he could kiss her lips, she had flung him 
yards from her with one violent push. He 
lost his balance and fell into a clump of black- 
berry bushes. He made a ridiculous picture, 
trying to extricate himself from the thorns, 
his face and hands bleeding; but Bridget’s 
heart was too full of sorrow for her to look 
back. Oh, the poor trusting wife! 


THE COAL FIE LIDS. 71 

m 

“I shall have to leave this" beautiful home,” 
she reflected, “and I may never see dear Mrs. 
Carter again. O, Hugh, Hugh, if all men 
were like you! Beauty to a working girl 
is a curse. I feel so much alone, so much 
alone. Oh, Belle,” she burst into violent 
sobs, “where are you? What benefit has 
your sweet face been to you? Pap, pap,” the 
tears flowed fast indeed, “are you near your 
poor Bridget ? Oh, if I could only lay my 
head on your dear breast and feel that I had 
one to protect me, for after all I am only a 
girl.” 

In a little while she was herself again, and 
calmly viewed her position. She must leave 
her present employment, but what excuse 
could she allege to Mrs. Carter? Bridget’s 
smooth brow wrinkled; Mrs. Carter was so 
fond of her. She packed her trunk ; she would 
say good-bye to her mistress next day. A 
letter from home came that evening, written 
in the scrawly hand of her brother Willy. It 
was in its way a godsend. Her mother was 
slightly ill, it said. “And you know, Bid, 
you ain’t bin home for ever so long. I think 
maybe if you was to come, for she is always 
wishing you was back, she would get all 
right.” 

The clock had struck only eight. She 


72 


THE LILY OF 


dressed herself hastily and went to Mrs. Carter. 

“But why need you take your trunk, 
Bridget ?” 

“Because I shall not return. My mother 
is old, and she needs me. She — she wants 
me to stay at home with her.” Bridget still 
found it hard to tell white lies. 

“But you will write to me, won’t you, 
Bridget?” said Mrs. Carter, with tears of 
genuine regret in her eyes. “Oh, I am so 
sorry to lose you!” 

It was early in the morning when Bridget 
got off the train at Mine Run. Not a soul 
was stirring, and everything, but the old col- 
liery, was silent. There noise abounded to 
murder sleep; steam hissing; cars rattling and 
groaning; a man with a lamp on his head 
going hither and thither, whistling in a pierc- 
ing way. 

Bridget looked up at the dull windows of 
Hugh Nolan’s home, and her heart beat 
happily. Oh, if she could only lay her head 
on his broad chest, and let his strong arms 
guard her! She was only a girl, only a girl 
after all. 

She saw a light burning in her old home. 
Oh, the memories ! The scalding tears darted 
to her eyes. She tapped at the door; a win- 
dow was thrown up, then out shot her brother 


THE COAL FIELDS. 73 

Willy’s head. He did not exclaim “Bridget!” 
as she had expected, but quietly came down- 
stairs. He opened the door, and Bridget 
folded him in her arms and kissed him. 

“Sure, Bid, you never got the despatch so 
soon!” he said. 

“No,” she replied, the truth dawning on 
her. “Mam is worse?” 

“She is mighty low, Bid,” with a boyish sob, 
“and Andy and Christy is upstairs with her. 
She tuk a turn about nine o’clock, and we 
thought she was gone. Christy sent you the 
despatch then. She’s had the priest,” he 
added, as Bridget entered the sick room. 

Mrs. Pur cel was supported by her son 
Christy’s arm. One glance at the dear thin 
old face told Bridget the truth; her mother 
was dying. 

“Me own Biddy, sure I knowed you’d be 
here to close me eyes. Don’t cry so hard for 
me, alanna; I’m going to your pap.” 

Bridget talked softly and soothingly to her 
mother. Mrs. Purcel made no mention of 
her absent daughter, and a sudden fear took 
possession of Bridget. 

“Mam, you have forgiven Belle from your 
heart, haven’t you? You know we must 
forgive all injuries before we see God’s holy 
face.” 


74 


THE LILY OF 


“O yes, aroon; don’t fear. I’ve forgive 
her — but, ugh! look what she done to me!” 
she added with a little bitterness. “But still 
for God’s dear sake, I have forgive her; for 
Him that I’ll soon see,” striking her breast, 
“wasn’t spiteful again no one. When He 
hung there on the cross for three whole hours, 
and never a one to brush even a fly from Him, 
His thoughts were to forgive them a-murder- 
ing Him.” 

Long the mother and her daughter and 
three sons prayed together. The first rays 
of sun stealing through the window, Bridget 
arose, turned down the light, blew it out. 
When she looked round, there was a golden 
glow on her mother’s head. A beam of sun- 
shine had pierced through the window, had 
fallen across the brow, and was softly flush- 
ing the calm old face — just as God’s glory 
was shedding upon the soul that had gone 
before His throne. 

When she had seen her mother laid to rest 
in the dear old churchyard — laid to rest with 
her Mike, the Mike who had been the light 
of her life — Bridget remained near the mound 
on her knees, after all the other mourners had 
departed. 

“O pap, O mam, you are safe here, but 
where is Belle, oh, where is Belle? O dear, 


THE COAL FIELDS. 75 


dead and gone parents, let me find her; let 
me bring her here, to lie with you, and Biddy 
is satisfied.’ , 

Bridget stayed a few days with her brother 
Andy and his wife. 

“You needn’t to bother about Willy,” said 
he; “I’m going to have him live with me.” 

Before she returned to the city, she went 
to pay Mrs. Nolan a visit. During her recent 
bereavement, the old woman had shown her- 
self a good and kind friend. Bridget blushed 
a little when she saw that Hugh Nolan was 
in the room, but he failed to notice that. 

“Sure ’tis lonely you’ll be going back to the 
city and feeling you ain’t got no home at all. 
Bridget, ’tis high time you were thinking of 
making a home for yourself,” said Mrs. 
Nolan . 

Hugh’s face was turned from Bridget just 
then, and she saw only the back of his fine 
head. Oh, her poor yearning heart! She 
felt embarrassed, and Mrs. Nolan knew it. 

“How old were you, Mrs. Nolan, when 
you married?” she asked, trying to keep the 
color from her cheeks, and seeking to parry 
the old woman’s banter. 

“A year younger than yourself when Hugh’s 
father came and marched me off. Sure, he 
gave me no peace at all, at all. Doesn’t that 


76 


THE LILY OF 


boy there bring him back afore me as he was!” 
and she touched her eyes with her spotless 
apron. “But Hugh ain’t so bold as his 
father; sure, the boy ought to have a wife, and 
not be a-keeping his old mother so lonesome. 
Bridget, I’ll be going one of these days, and 
he won’t have no one to take care of him.” 

Hugh turned quickly, and his face was 
unmoved as he looked at Bridget. 

“I’ll have to take care of myself, mam, 
when you are gone.” 

Bridget’s heart gave a great leap, then sank 
low in her bosom. Hugh stood up a splendid 
man, perfectly calm ; he had great self-control. 

“Mam, this cut on my knuckle needs a 
new dressing.” 

Bridget’s quick eyes noticed that his right 
hand was bandaged. 

“It slipped me mind, son; you know me old 
crane ain’t as good as it used to be for remem- 
b’ring. Here Bridget, you were always fine 
at such things. Sure, when you were knee- 
high to a grasshopper, it did me good to see 
howfyou tied up the boys’ hands when they 
came home cut from the breakers.” 

There was nothing for Bridget to do, but 
dress the wound. As she held the injured 
member in her strong, slender hands, little 
did she think that every nerve in the man’s 


THE COAL FIELDS. 77 


great muscular body was quivering, and his 
heart hammering away like a smithy’s sledge. 
He was studying the rich dark hair, the round 
peachy cheek, the parted red lips, the lovely 
throat, as she bent so near him; but he hid 
his feelings well. Only once did his fingers 
quiver; that was when Bridget was binding 
the wound. 

“I am not tying it too tightly?” she asked 
tenderly. 

“No.” 

He smiled into her big eyes. Had she 
seared the gash with a hot iron, and kept 
those eyes on him, he was certain he would 
not have felt the pain. 

“Where does Miss Bridget Purcel live?” 
floated in through the open window. It was 
a well-trained voice, a man’s. 

Hugh glanced out from where he was sit- 
ting, and saw a well-looking, well-dressed 
stranger. A great flood of bitterness and 
jealousy welled up in his heart. “A wealthy 
lover!” he thought. He turned to look at 
Bridget. Her cheeks were flushed very red, 
and her eyes were sparkling. She was angry 
but Hugh did not know that. The flood of 
bitterness and jealousy rose into his throat 
and almost strangled him. Bridget had 
shrunk back, that the man outside might not 
see her. It was Wayne Carter. 


CHAPTER X. 


GREEK MEETS GREEK. 

Aurora Carter was attiring herself hur- 
riedly, and the haste evident in her dress did 
not add anything to her appearance. 

“You say, Andrew, that he bought a ticket 
for Mine Run?” she inquired for the fiftieth 
time of her butler. 

“Yes, ma’am, for Mine Run. I heard him 
ask for the ticket.” 

“How long ago ?” 

“Yesterday afternoon.” 

“He has been so different since Bridget is 
gone,” she said, hurrying to her cab. “I 
wondered why he was so eager to find out 
where she lived.” 

She pondered all the way to the station. 
“He is fascinated with her,” — Aurora would 
not let herself think him in love with Bridget 
— “and no wonder.” She threw up her veil 
and glanced at herself in the pier glass. “Ah, 
me, you suffer by the comparison, Aurora. 
A woman with one-half her charms could set 
any man mad from Solomon to Socrates. I 
can hardly believe that Bridget has encour- 


THE COAL FIELDS. 79 


aged him; she is too noble a woman. Still 
she may have; perhaps she loves him; I can- 
not blame her. Oh, I will plead with her ; he 
is all I have; I will give her half my fortune, 
if she will only go far away, where he cannot 
see her again. She can find many men to 
love her; he is all I have.” 

The poor creature had no reproofs in her 
heart either for her husband or for Bridget. 

And while the wife was so unselfishly 
thinking of her husband, where was he, and 
where were his thoughts? 

It was a beautiful afternoon at Mine Run ; 
the sun never seemed fairer. The old colliery 
was as usual pouring forth from its many 
windows clouds upon clouds of dust. Its jigs 
and screens and elevators and steam pipes 
and rollers and dump-carts and coal cars, 
all contributed their quota to the general 
noise. The banks, ash and rock and culm, 
looked grim enough, but the high, beautiful 
mountains, robed in rich foliage and beau- 
tiful laurels, were only the more lovely by 
contrast. 

Bridget Purcel was on her way to the church- 
yard, to visit the grave of her parents. That 
day she was to leave Mine Run. The ceme- 
tery was situated on the mountain side, 
about half a mile from the village. 


80 


THE LILY OF 


Ah, Bridget, as you slowly and thought- 
fully wend your way under the tall trees, 
over the rough gravels, along the zigzag path, 
of whom are you thinking? Of Belle, the 
absent, well-loved Belle. 

The girl’s graceful figure had hardly 
disappeared into the woods, when a 
man’s figure followed the same path, and 
he had hardly vanished into a mass 
of thick brush when a veiled woman followed 
him. 

Bridget went into the quiet graveyard and 
prayed for some time ; then she became con- 
scious of loud talking outside the cemetery 
fence. At first she paid no attention, but 
when she heard a familiar voice cry out, 
“You would not kill me?” and another too 
familiar voice reply with an oath, she sprang 
to her feet and darted to the gate. She knew 
that within a stone’s throw of the cemetery 
was an old mine breach full of water. It had 
been there from time out of mind. She re- 
called in that instant how she and Belle had 
been wont to lean over the brink and look at 
their faces in the black water, yet how they 
both had feared it. Tearing her skirts in 
her haste, she sped through the laurel bushes 
till she came suddenly within sight of the 
mine breach. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 81 


She saw Wayne Carter with his hands on 
his wife’s thin throat and her on her knees. 
So blind was he with rage and wine, that he 
failed to notice Bridget, and was beginning 
to drag the frail form to the awful water. 

“Stop, beast!” Bridget’s voice, clear as a 
bell, seemed to turn the would-be uxorcide 
to stone. She was at his side now and had 
taken Aurora in her arms. “Go,” said Brid- 
get sternly, “go, if you are wise. Go, or 
so help me heaven, I will make the miners 
lynch you.” 

He slunk away like a whipped cur, and 
Bridget turned her whole attention to his 
wife. She had not fainted, but was very 
weak and nervous. Bridget thought the 
greatest kindness she could do Mrs. Carter 
was to remain silent. After a little while 
the unhappy wife spoke: 

“O Bridget, I almost wish you had let him 
kill me! Better to die in those black waters 
than to let black heartache eat away my life. 
Bridget, you seem to be the innocent curse of 
my life. But I do not, I cannot in justice 
blame you. Any man would love you!” 

Then she knew! Bridget sat down on the 
grass, and Mrs. Carter laid her head on her 
bosom — just as another dear head had lain 
there. 


82 


THE LILY OF 


“Believe me, Mrs. Carter,” she said tear- 
fully, “I do not care for your husband, I 
never did. If I could have my wish, he would 
be all that a husband should be, and would 
love you as you deserve to be loved.” 

“God bless you, dear, sweet, good girl. I 
was not wrong in my judgment of you. Yet, 
Bridget, it would have been much better had 
I never seen you.” 

Bridget silently admitted that. “But, Mrs. 
Carter,” she said consolingly, “your husband 
may learn to love you only the better now. 
This infatuation has died, or shall soon die, 
for I will scorn him. He will be glad to 
love you.” 

“Never now, Bridget, never, never!” She 
said those words as if her death knell were 
ringing in her ears. 

Bridget did not ask an explanation of why 
she had come to Mine Run; she knew why 
Wayne Carter had come; but when she and 
the wretched wife were on the train en route 
to the city, she told her all. How she had 
noticed her husband’s gloom after Bridget 
left; how she discovered through her butler, 
of his going to Mine Run; how she had gone 
after him at once ; how she learned at the poor 
little hotel where he was registered that he 
had walked up the mountain side; how she 
had been directed and followed him. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 83 


“Before you posed for ‘The Miner’s Wife’, 
I was warned of his love for you. I received 
an anonymous letter from some man whom 
he had taken into his confidence; but I paid 
no attention to the letter; only laughed and 
threw it into the fire. 

“When I met him on the mountain to-day, 
Wayne was almost stunned at seeing me. I 
entreated him for love of his wife to leave 
Mine Run with me. He laughed and said 
that unfortunately he had no love for me. 
He told me to my face that he had married 
me for my money, and now when he was suc- 
ceeding so well in his chosen profession, he 
needed not my money. He called me a hag. 
My replies — for I am not meek or patient — 
so angered him that he was about to commit 
murder. He had followed you, Bridget, had 
missed you, and was going to murder for 
you. He wants to be free; free to love, woo, 
wed you.” 

“Mrs. Carter, you may take my word, I 
will never marry your husband.” 

“Never, Bridget? Will you promise?” 

Bridget for a moment thought. “I need 
not promise, Mrs. Carter,” she said. “I 
love another, and can love him only.” 

Mrs. Carter was satisfied. At the station 
in the city, she kissed Bridget lingeringly. 


84 


THE LILY OF 


“We part for ever, dear girl,” she said. “But 
I shall never forget you.” She turned away, 
then looked at Bridget again. “I am the 
better for having met such a woman.” 

She was gone. Bridget never saw her 
again, 

* * * * * * * 

Mrs. Weyland seemed discontented as she 
sat alone eating almonds. 

“There is a mystery somewhere,” said the 
grand old dame to her reflection in the mirror. 
“My poor Aurora! why did I ever let her 
marry that selfish, worldly Wayne Carter! 
But my conscience is clear; I could not pre- 
vent the match; she would have her own way; 
she would lose her life or get him. She has 
him now, but he is harder to hold than an 
eel.” She patted her roll of white hair with 
her ringed hand. “I could wish Aurora 
prettier, but Wayne Carter might have mar- 
ried an uglier woman. It is as plain as 
daylight that he married her purse, not her; 
but if I told her that, she would sting me with 
her sharp tongue. But my poor girl!” she 
pressed a webby handkerchief to her eyes, 
then put a few more almonds into her mouth, 
“what a pity that she must be unhappy! 
Wayne Carter is like his father before him; 
he broke my dear sister’s heart. Poor Lola, 
Aurora is like her. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 85 


“So he is gone to — Hello, Andrew! Where 
did you say Mr. Carter went ? Oh, to Mine 
Run ! — So he is gone to Mine Run, and Aurora 
is gone after him. That lovely Bridget, why 
did I engage her! He worships pretty faces; 
and there is something so winning about the 
innocence of those country girls, something 
so appealing to men of the world.” 

Her reverie was ended here by the entrance 
of Aurora; travel-stained, her face blackened 
from the train smoke, her eyes and nose red 
from crying, her hair a mass of long, straight 
wisps. Mrs. Weyland arose and helped 
Aurora to take off her hat. She had resolved 
to make no mention of Wayne, but her curi- 
osity got the better of her. 

“Did you find him, Aurora?” she asked 
abruptly. 

The poor wife gave vent to a fresh burst of 
sobs. “O ma, don’t ask me!” 

“Cut him out of your will, daughter, cut 
him out of your will; don’t leave him a cent!” 

“Ma, money, forever money with you! 
Money is the greatest of evils.” 

“It is a necessary evil, Aurora. But don’t 
excite yourself. Gracious, you are a positive 
fright; you looked bad enough going away, 
but you are worse coming back. Take a 
cup of tea. Wait, I’ll ring.” 


86 


THE LILY OF 

m 

“Ma, don’t drive me raving mad. What 
do I want with tea! What do I want with 
anything!” 

“Girl, girl, you do rave. But you are not 
to be reasoned with, I see ; come to your room.” 

And the portly ex-society-leader strutted 
on ahead, just as in the days long gone by 
she might have led a grand march. 

The day subsequent, Aurora Carter made 
a slight change in her will — two thousand 
dollars were to go to Bridget Purcel, the rest 
to Wayne Carter. 

“It is not very much to give her,” she 
reflected, “but it will be a fortune to Bridget, 
and I don’t want to keep from Wayne any 
more than I can help.” 

Poor faithful wife! poor unhappy, loving 
Aurora! — but, then, she was a woman. 

Carter boldly returned to his studio. 
Andrew, the butler, informed Aurora and 
her mother that he was there. 

Mrs. Weyland sprang to her feet. “Throw 
him out, Andrew, throw — ” 

“Ma! Respect yourself! You are speak- 
ing before the servants! Andrew, please re- 
tire. — Ma!” Aurora was whispering. “You 
are not to know anything, though you have 
guessed the truth. I cannot see Wayne now. 
Dare I trust you to go to him?” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 87 


“Yes, indeed,” said her mother eagerly, 
and she turned to leave, but Aurora detained 
her. 

“Mind, ma, my happiness is in your hands. 
Weigh your words well!” 

Mrs. Weyland rustled into the studio with 
as much grace as one could be expected to 
have after so long and gay a career in society. 
She smiled a fat smile at her affectionate 
son-in-law. 

“Ah!” she ejaculated, folding her pudgy 
hands on her stomach, “contemplating your 
masterpiece, son Wayne?” 

There was a note of affection in her voice. 
Diamond cut diamond; the mother-in-law 
against the son-in-law. Mrs. Weyland had 
not been circling in society so many years 
for nothing. 

“Well, it is pretty, aye, beautiful. That 
chambermaid posed for it, eh? A hand- 
some girl, and you have done her justice.” 

He was flattered, and showed it. 

“I hope, Wayne, you will stay home for 
luncheon to-morrow; the house is so lonely 
without a man here but the servants. Ah,” 
she sighed a hugh sigh that ruffled her broad 
placid bosom, “when I am gone, and I can- 
not live twenty years more, you will make 
an august master here.” 


88 


THE LILY OF 


She again leveled her lorgnette at “The 
Miner’s Wife.” 

“By the way, one of these days I shall ask 
you to paint your mother-in-law, if such an 
artist as Wayne Carter will stoop to work so 
small and with so little poetry in it.” 

She chuckled when she had left him. 

Aurora in a few days fell very ill. She 
had always been delicate, and the sad news 
of her approaching death was soon broken 
to her mother. That estimable lady wept 
for full five minutes, and then made a pil- 
grimage to her daughter’s desk. Her face 
was very bright after she had gone into the 
kitchen and thrown a piece of paper upon the 
live coals. Forthwith did she summon her 
trusty old lawyer, Mr. Price, who loved money 
as he did his own soul, and even better. 
They were long in conference. 

Poor Aurora, after sending for her husband 
and telling him that she was leaving the world 
with his image on her heart, died. When 
Mrs. Weyland entered the death chamber, a 
minute after her daughter’s soul had de- 
parted, there was a satisfied smile on Wayne 
Carter’s face; surely Aurora’s fortune was 
his. He might have noticed a triumphant 
look on his mother-in-law’s countenance, had 
he glanced at her. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 89 


Aurora’s grand funeral over, her will was 
read. All her fortune was left to her dear 
mother, Mrs. Clarence Weyland; not one 
dollar for her husband, Wayne Carter. He 
glanced sharply at his mother-in-law, but she 
was buried in grief, and a black-bordered 
handkerchief concealed her fair old face. All 
the women sympathized with her, and men- 
tally approved of her taste; her gown was 
magnificent and fitted to perfection, and 
black always looked well on her. Dear 
Aurora, they said, how lonely her mother 
would be! Society, too, had lost by her 
demise, she was such a sweet girl. But Mrs. 
Weyland was laughing in her sleeve at the 
toadies round about. 

That night Wayne Carter spent an hour 
or so cursing his wife and tearing every por- 
trait that he had of her to bits. 

“But I will seek out Bridget,” he said with 
determination. “ 'The Miner’s Wife’ will 
certainly add no few laurels to my present 
scanty wreath. When my picture has brought 
me fame, I shall go to Bridget. I shall win 
and wed her. She will help me to increase 
my fame.” 

He dreamed bright dreams that night. He 
saw Jacob’s ladder and himself high up on 
the golden rungs. A single angel, with stream- 
ing hair, led him on; that was Bridget. 


90 


THE LILY OF 


“Andrew,” said Mrs. Weyland to her butler 
next morning, “you will please tell Mr. Carter 
that I intend to close up the house as soon as 
possible and go to Europe, alone.” 

“That will humiliate him,” she reflected, 
“to receive his walking papers from the hand 
of a servant.” 

When Andrew had broken to him the 
pleasant news, Wayne Carter did some more 
cursing and devoted his loving mother-in- 
law to the forty furies. Well, there was noth- 
ing to do but make the best of things. He 
strode to his studio, only to find one of the 
windows wide open, and the bright sun pour- 
ing in. He looked at the bronze frame on 
the easel, and raged like a baited bull. He 
tore at his hair and mustache, he overturned 
paints; he threw brushes into the corners and 
out of the window, he broke easels, he drove 
his fist through an incipient sunset. 

“Curses on me for an idiot!” he groaned. 
“I was for ever showing my gem to every 
Tom, Dick and Harry, and continually crow- 
ing; no wonder it has been stolen.” He 
looked through the window and saw a ladder 
leaning against the house. “But I will search 
till I die for my ‘Miner’s Wife’; I will wear 
myself out, body and soul, till I find it.” 

Search till you die, dear artist. Wear out 


THE COAL FIELDS. 91 


your body searching, wear out your soul. 
Ruin your eyes looking into galleries, private 
and public; but never will you find your 
“Miner’s Wife.” While you, in your dreams 
last night, climbed the golden ladder of fame, 
led on by a dark-haired angel, another angel, 
in a cloak, with her white hair streaming, 
stole into your studio, armed with a sharp 
knife. 

It is well for her that you did not see her 
cut the picture from its frame, and glide 
down into the kitchen, where there was a 
blazing fire. It is well you did not see your 
“Miner’s Wife” slashed into strips, and made 
a holocaust to appease the wrath of an old 
woman. Yes, dear artist, search on, search 
on; renew your searches from day to day; but 
there is no art gallery knows so much about 
your “Miner’s Wife,” as does Mrs. Weyland’s 
kitchen range. 


CHAPTER XI. 


FRED’S NINE FRIDAYS. 

‘‘God’s ways are queer, I tell you,” said old 
Mrs. Finley, puckering up her toothless 
mouth thoughtfully. “To think of that poor 
Nellie Purcel dying and leaving them six 
lovely babies, for they’re nothing else but 
babies; like steps of stairs, the crowd of them.” 

“It’s not Him as is queer, or His ways 
neither, Mrs. Finley,” replied Mrs. Nolan, 
“but it’s us is dumb and can’t see how mighty 
good He is in taking her from this hard ole 
world. Poor Nellie, she done her share of 
hard work before she went to heaven ; and to 
heaven she went, if ever any one did. But 
Christy Purcel’ s not going to break up his 
house, is he?” 

“No; his sister Bridget’s come home from 
the city, and they say she ’s going to stay with 
Christy. Lots and lots of work for her, but 
Bridget’s strong and she ain’t no shirker.” 

“That she’s not. She’s a daughter for 
a mother to be proud of. Why, I remember 
the bags and bags of coal she used to pick and 
haul in a wheel-barra.” 


THECOAL FIELDS. 93 


“But, Mrs. Nolan, I can’t help from won- 
dering. Poor Nellie Purcel’s dead, and that 
scamp of a Barney Green is left a-living, and 
him drinking and carousing and swearing the 
full of the house and neglecting his wife and 
two little lads. Fine boys them are, Mrs. 
Nolan, little John and Freddie Green. Now, 
why don’t God take sich a divil of a man, and 
leave sich an angel of a woman?” 

“ ’Tain’t none of our business what God 
does, Mrs. Finley. We’re His, and He knows 
best” 

Yes, Bridget Purcel was home at Mine 
Run again. Her brother’s wife was dead — a 
patient woman whom everybody loved. The 
little town was dear to her heart, though it 
had sad memories for her. Everybody no- 
ticed a great change in Bridget Purcel when 
she returned from the city, and all attributed 
her mild sadness to the death of her dear 
ones. Her brother Christy often remarked 
in silence how eagerly Bridget conned the 
city paper, but he thought she was follow- 
ing the gay career of one of her former mis- 
tresses. He never dreamed that she was 
hoping to find some trace of Belle — Belle 
whose name was never spoken. 

Bridget was truly a mother to her brother’s 
children. The little ones clung to “Aunt 


94 


THE LILY OF 


Biddy” and adored her. Her life was one 
round of monotonous duties, but she never 
complained; she found her consolation in 
prayer, in the children, and in the conscious- 
ness of duty well done. She loved to teach 
the younger ones their prayers, loved to hear 
their voices say, “Hallowed be Thy name.” 
She always asked the children to say an extra 
“Hail Mary” for one who was adrift on the 
world’s mighty ocean, only God knew where. 

The great coal-breaker whistles were filling 
the air with a din that was almost unbear- 
able. The machinery of the large Rhoads 
Colliery had been set in motion, and its stiff 
wheels and cogs were screeching with an ear- 
splitting noise. Clouds of fine coal dust were 
beginning to arise, and lumps of coal were 
gliding down the smooth chutes. As the 
coal struck the loose pieces of sheet-iron in 
some of the chutes, they resounded harshly. 
The hugh, round screens were groaning, as 
if they dreaded the working day which was 
just beginning. 

A long, irregular line of breaker boys came 
surging up the rickety flight of dust-covered 
steps. Their dinted tin lunch-pails and bot- 
tles bumped together, and gave forth a rather 
musical sound. Some of the boys whistled 


THE COAL FIELDS. 95 


popular airs, or hummed songs; others in- 
dulged in loud conversation. 

In five minutes, everybody is at his work- 
ing-place, and the day’s labor is begun. How 
patient the little slate-pickers look, as they 
throw out the slate and “bony” coal from 
the good product! How often their hard 
little hands are bruised and cut by the sharp 
pieces of coal! The dust rises in heavy 
clouds, and almost conceals their little faces; 
it pours out through the open windows, and 
darkens the sunlight. 

Outside, the birds are singing in the woods 
about the colliery; the sun is shining on the 
leafy trees and green grass ; the purling brooks 
gurgle among the old rocks. How different 
is the working day of the breaker-boy from 
ours! He seems to have left the gladsome 
earth and penetrated to Pluto’s regions. 

Two little slate-pickers, the Green brothers, 
one about fifteen years of age, the other just 
turned thirteen, are sitting side-by-side work- 
ing with great vim. 

“Hurry up, Fred,” says the older of the 
two; “the chute’s almost clear. Sock the 
coal down! You need a rest.” 

When the chute is entirely empty, all the 
slate-pickers leave their places, except the 
two Green boys. 


96 


THE LILY OF 


“Put in the chute-board, Fred,” says John 
Green, “and we’ll have a talk. Say, Fred, I 
notice you’re been kinder quiet ever since 
breakfast ; you’d rather not work to-day, eh ?” 
Fred Green nods. “I’m sorry meself for 
your sake that we are working. Why 
could’ nt we work yesterday? Three days’ 
work this week, Fred — Monday, Wednes- 
day, and Friday; think of it! You wanted to 
go to Holy Communion this morning, 
didn’t you, Fred?” 

The older boy looks kindly at his brother’s 
downcast face, at the grey eyes, with their 
vacant stare. 

“Yes, John,” Fred breaks forth, “I did 
want to receive Holy Communion to-day. 
This is the First Friday, you know, and to- 
day’s communion would’ve made me Nine 
Fridays. I’ve been making me no vena for 
nine whole months, and now it’s broke.” 

“Don’t mind, Fred; you kin start over 
again. If you’re making the novena for a 
happy death, you’ve lots of time; you’re not 
going to die for a long while yet.” 

“I wasn’t making it for a happy death, 
John; I was makin’ it for pap. You know,” 
and gloom settled down on the small face, 
“how bad he’s been for so long — drinking, 
and not going to Mass, and not giving mam 


THE COAL FIELDS. 97 


any money. I know the novena of the Nine 
Fridays to the Sacred Heart’d make him 
better.” 

“Well, Fred, you’d a right to stay at home 
to-day, and go to Holy Communion.” 

“I did intend to stay home to-day, John, 
and I went to confession last night. When 
I came home from the church, I went up- 
stairs quiet, and in passing by mam’s room, 
I heard her crying. Her door was half open, 
and I listened for a little while. ‘O Mother 
of God,’ she said, ‘help me; I haven’t a cent 
in the world. Mother Mary, intercede for 
me husband.’ I found out afterwards, John, 
that the storekeeper had said he wanted her 
to pay something on her back bill, else he’d 
have to stop the store on her. How could I 
stay at home from work to-day, and her need- 
ing money, and the collieries working the 
broken time ? But, oh, I did want to finish 
the Nine Fridays for pap.” 

Here the conversation is cut short; the 
screen is full of coal again, and now the chute 
is rapidly “blocking up.” Soon all the grimy 
little faces are bent over their “tables” and 
are “socking” out the slate. One small 
chap is eating a piece of bread with his left 
hand, while with the right he pushes down 
the stream of coal. The noise is deafening; 


98 


THE LILY OF 


the hoarse grinding of the machinery, the 
“clink — clink’’ of the elevator-buckets, the 
rattling and rushing of the coal, and the loud 
coarse voice of the boss, as he shouts orders 
to the boys. 

The great whistle shrieks. T welve o’clock ! 
— the dinner half-hour has come ! 

All the boys with one accord, scamper from 
their places, with their dinner-pails, and rush 
down the steps into the open air. Some loll 
on the grass under the trees, and eat their 
dinner languidly; others are engaged in ear- 
nest conversation, and do not open their 
dinner-buckets — which, by the way, are 
empty, the boys having eaten their lunch while 
working. Some black, dusty little forms are 
perched on the high boughs of the trees, and 
are singing as gaily as the birds; others of the 
boys have gone back into the breaker, and are 
playing “tag”. One can, ever and anon, 
catch glimpses of their figures, as they flit 
by the open windows. 

“Come, John,” says Fred Green, “the five- 
minute whistle’s blew, and the machinery’s 
going pretty lively.” He twists the rope of 
his tin coffee-bottle about his can. “We’ll 
take that short cut up by the engine-house.” 

Fred, followed by John, runs rapidly to- 
wards a rear door of the breaker. They 


THE COAL FIELDS. 99 


mount a short flight of creaking steps to- 
gether. 

“Say, Fred, I don’t like to go this way, it’s 
so dangerous; we have to duck under so 
many of those big belt-wheels. But, hurry, 
there goes the whistle!” 

The machinery was now running at full 
speed. Fred, in his haste, slipped on a piece 
of treacherous coal, just as he was about to 
stoop and pass under a huge, flying wheel. 
He lost his balance, and, with a faint cry, 
fell before John had time to reach his side. 
Fred threw out one hand to save himself, 
and, in his excitement, grasped the thick belt. 
In a second, he was whirled round, and flung 
from the wheel’s mighty grasp into another 
wheel, whence he fell to the ground below — a 
bleeding, moaning little figure. 

As soon as John’s horrified eyes beheld 
his brother caught in the wheel, he instinc- 
tively clutched a bell- wire which ran near the 
steps, and gave it a mighty pull. When the 
machinery stopped, and one of the workmen 
came to John’s side, he was holding his 
brother’s bruised form in his arms, and was 
whispering soft words into his ears. 

The two boys were borne home together 
in the dark ambulance. Fred’s lips were 
moving in prayer; his eyes were closed, and 


100 


THE LILY OF 


his forehead, where the coal dust had not 
settled so heavily, gleamed like marble, John 
was pale too, and his lips were moving. 

Mrs. Green shrieked when she saw the 
mine ambulance and rushed to her boys. 
She hurriedly led the way to a neat, but poor 
bedroom; and Fred’s bleeding head was laid 
on a worn, snowy pillow. 

John was now gone for the parish priest; 
and Mrs. Green, with tears trickling down 
her cheeks and falling on her faded calico 
gown, was making preparations for the 
coming Guest. The tidy table was soon 
prepared; and, with a great sob that came 
from her mother’s heart, she fell on the bed 
beside her injured son, her hard hands locked 
together. 

Bridget Purcel was washing the blood and 
coal-dust from Fred’s thin face, as Mrs. Nolan 
removed his shoes. 

John entered breathless. 

“The priest, mam,” he said. 

Mrs. Green hurried to the bedroom door 
just as it opened and the priest entered, 
preceded by Mrs. Finley, carrying a lighted 
candle. Barney Green, the father, could not 
be found. 

After Fred had made his confession, he 
received his Lord, with a face as radiant 
as an angel’s. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 101 


His mother crushed back a sob, as she 
looked at the innocent countenance. “Thy 
will be done, Lord,” she whispered, “if he 
must die.” 

The priest had scarcely administered the 
last sacraments, when a doctor and Barney 
Green came into the room. The latter, who 
had evidently been drinking, with one stride 
reached the bedside. 

“Fred!” 

“Pap!” the rough little hands were clasped 
about the father’s neck, “pap, how glad I am 
that you’ve come!” 

Great sobs were shaking the man’s broad 
chest; he saw death in his boy’s face. The 
doctor then examined the patient little suf- 
ferer, and shook his head. 

John was bending over Fred on the left, 
the parents on the right. 

“John, I’ve made me Nine Fridays,” with 
an angelic smile. “Pap,” a little hand was 
placed on the father’s head, and two eyes, 
bright as stars, looked into his face, “pap, 
promise that you won’t drink any more.” 

“Fred! Fred, O Fred, my little one! are 
you really dying?” Mrs. Green broke forth. 

Fred’s eyes shot a look of love into hers. 

“Fred,” the father was calmer now, “I’ve 
drunk my last glass.” 

... L* . , 


102 


THE LILY OF 


The priest now commenced the last, sad, 
yet consoling office; Bridget Purcel, Mrs. 
Nolan and Mrs. Finley had sunk on their 
knees, tears shining in their dilated eyes; the 
physician, with his arms folded, was standing 
near the door, biting his lips to repress his 
emotion; the mother had fallen, face down- 
ward, on the floor; tears were streaming down 
John’s grimy cheeks, as Barney Green caught 
Fred in his arms. Fred whispered in his 
father’s ear; he pressed his lips to Fred’s 
cheek. 

A little sigh, — and Fred’s clinging hands 
slipped from his father’s neck. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE SOCIAL STEPPING-STONE. 

Bridget was in the city again; she had 
grown to love it. Before her departure from 
Mine Run, she paid a farewell visit to the 
graves of her parents and brother, and spent 
a lonely — only God knows how lonely, an 
hour beside them. 

“What are your designs in my regard, O 
Lord ?” she whispered, as she closed the ceme- 
tery gate and cast a last sad look at the green 
mounds. “You have taken from me almost 
all, and, Lord, I am weak, so weak. Uphold 
me, or I shall sink down never to rise again; 
I find my cross so heavy.” 

Her brother Christy had married again. 
His wedding festivities over, she kissed him 
good-bye. She could not be dependent on 
him, he had a large family; she must earn her 
own living. 

Farewell again to dear Mine Run. Fare- 
well to those coal-dusty roads along which 
she had walked many an evening with her 
father. Farewell to the little church, St. 
Joseph’s. Dear St. Joseph’s! She knew 


104 


THE LILY OF 


where her father used to sit in % church; and 
sometimes when she heard Mass and looked 
at that pew, her vision blurred with tears, 
she could see him there still, saying his beads 
with his simple Irish faith, bending down at 
the consecration, and dealing his unoffending 
breast terrific blows. Sometimes when the 
spotless Host was raised up for adoration, 
she felt that her father must be present. 

And poor Larry! When the Holy Name 
Society received in a body, Bridget could 
scarcely control herself. She knew how 
devoutly her brother had been wont to 
approach the holy table. Going to the altar- 
rail, his rough hands piously folded, his in- 
nocent, boyish face lit up with something like 
a smile — that picture was engraven with a 
golden pen on Bridget’s memory. 

Well, she was in the city again, and was 
glad to be there. 

Bridget was a trained nurse now. How 
happy she was, and how short seemed the 
days; those busy days, so full of duties, so 
full of the little kindnesses that mean much 
to the sick and suffering! She had started 
in at the hospital as a servant girl, but through 
the affection borne her by Sister Isabella, 
one of the nurses, Bridget was at length pro- 
moted to her present position. She had al- 


THE qOAL FIELDS. 105 

ways tried to be serviceable, but only now 
did she begin to feel that she was of any use 
to the world. 

“ Bridget, would you mind going out to 
nurse?’’ the Superioress, Mother Eulalia, 
asked one afternoon. Bridget was not un- 
willing. “I hope you will find it pleasant,” 
she said as Bridget put on her hat. 

Bridget was driven to a brown-stone man- 
sion, and found that her patient was a young 
man, a widow’s only son, Warren Steele. 

“Mother wanted to nurse me, Miss Purcel,” 
he said to Bridget that night, when she was 
sitting with him; “but I did not let her, she 
would wear herself out.” 

Bridget liked his face, a handsome, manly 
one. He did not improve as the days went 
on, and Bridget gave him her undivided 
attention. 

Mrs. Steele was a short, stout old lady, with 
a broad, wrinkled brown face and thin iron- 
gray hair; she was not at all attractive. She 
always reminded Bridget of an old picture of 
Rebecca at the well, which her mother had 
had — a picture more noted for age than 
beauty. Bridget soon learned to be very 
fond of Mrs. Steele, and the feeling was re- 
ciprocated. 

“So you are from the country?” queried 


106 


THE LILY OF 


Mrs. Steele, smiling at Bridget. “You have 
the bloom of the fields in your cheeks.” 

Bridget hastened to explain that she 
was from the coal regions, not the farming 
districts. 

“That is my way,” said the old lady good 
humoredly, “to think every fresh, blooming, 
pretty girl is just off a farm. I was raised in 
the farming country, but the air never helped 
my beauty. How could it ? — I hadn’t the 
features,” she added ingenuously. 

The old lady loved to talk about the past. 
One night when her son was sleeping better 
than usual and she was sitting with Biidget, 
she said: 

“Dearie, perhaps you will marry soon?” 

Bridget laughed. “I must be getting to 
look old; you are the second one who said 
that to me.” And she thought of Mrs. Nolan. 

“You know better than that,” retorted the 
old lady. 

She was seated in a rocker, and was feast- 
ing her eyes on the young Venus before her. 
Now a faint shadow came into the sad, patient 
old eyes, and settled on the faded face. 

“Well, child, I trust that when you do 
marry, your life will be happier than mine was. 
There are so few to whom I can talk about 
my troubles, that it is pleasant to have you 


THE COAL FIELDS. 107 


here. It is just the kind of a night to talk 
in a melancholy strain.” 

For outside all was darkness, and the rain 
was pouring down. 

“I am garrulous, with the garrulity of old 
age, but, having so patient a listener, I hope 
I shall not weary you with my talk. 

“To few have I ever told the story of my 
unfortunate marriage and my long years of 
unhappiness. But there is something so win- 
ning about you, child, that I must let my old 
tongue rattle on. 

“It was my misfortune never to be pretty 
or attractive; and I became the wife of a man 
who seemed to admire only beautiful and 
brilliant women. I was twenty years old 
when I married Paxton Steele. I was a 
wealth y/armer’s only daughterand my father’s 
pride. The happiest moments of my life were 
passed beneath the roof of my old home in the 
village of Marlin. My thoughts often steal 
back to the dear old place, and, in fancy, I am 
with my devoted parents under the gnarled 
old apple-tree that stood by the door. 
The sweet breeze from the meadows then 
comes to my nostrils; the drowsy hum of the 
bees, the music of the forest birds, greet my 
ears. I was far from being an ignorant girl, 
Bridget. I had been graduated from the 


108 


THE LILY OF 


country school, and had gone through an 
excellent academy, but I was not brilliant. 
I was a miserable conversationalist; often I 
experienced those ‘dreadful pauses’ that come 
when conversation flags. I was always af- 
flicted with ‘nerves’. When called to play on 
the piano before visitors, I would prove a 
failure, though I was a fairly good performer. 

“A Mr. Steele bought a farm near ours, and 
came to live at Marlin. He was quite a poor 
man. I learned that he had in a university 
a son who would soon complete a course of 
medicine. Summer had set in when Dr. 
Paxton Steele came to his new home in Marlin. 
He was a handsome man of five-and-twenty. 

“All the country girls fell in love with the 
new doctor, all the swains were jealous of 
him. I met him a short while after his home- 
coming. It was at a picnic dance, where Dr. 
Steele was the lion of the occasion. He 
danced with me, and paid me, poor plain me, 
so much attention that my embarrassment 
was equaled only by the envy of the other 
girls. 

“In a month he had asked my father for 
my hand, and we were quietly married in 
the ivy-wreathed village church. What a 
proud, happy bride I was, as I leaned on the 
strong arm of my gallant young husband; 
and how fair the world seemed then! 


THE COAL FIELDS. 109 


“ After the birth of my first child, my Ellen, 
who was as homely as her mother, my hus- 
band and I came to live here in the city. Both 
my parents died the following year, and I 
should have felt quite alone in the world had 
it not been for Paxton and my little Nellie. 
My husband had done well in choosing so 
wealthy a wife, — I had been the richest girl 
in Marlin — for, in the beginning, he was not 
successful in his practice. 

“Another little girl came to bless our home, 
a beautiful child, a miniature of her father. 
We called her Dallas. Then, years after, 
came my Warren. 

“As time rolled by, my husband rose in 
popularity and began to amass somewhat of 
a fortune by his labors. He became the lead- 
ing physician of a large hospital. My for- 
tune, however, had been the foundation of 
his success. He was courted and sought by 
society; he was so witty, so handsome, so 
much of the Beau Brummel. 

“Dr. Steele, in a few years, was a common 
name in the society columns of the newspapers. 
Mrs. Steele’s name, however, seldom appeared 
there; I did not ‘take’ well in society; I was 
not brilliant, and I was ugly. 

“In the first happy years of our married 
life, my husband was kind to me and showed 


110 


THE LILY OF 


me all the little attentions due a wife. Later, 
however, when he had become the well- 
known Dr. Steele, I learned, to my morti- 
fication, that he was ashamed of me, the girl 
he had taken from her peaceful home; of 
me, the wife of his bosom, the mother of his 
children. He wanted a wife who could keep 
pace with him on the road of popularity; he 
felt .that the splendor of his fortune was 
dimmed by my lack of beauty and gentility. 
The treatment I received at his hands led me 
to think that he had never loved me, and 
had married me only for my fortune, that he 
had turned his eyes from my homeliness, and 
had fixed them only on the gold in my pos- 
session. Ah, kind heaven, the heartache! 

“But his name was connected with no other 
woman’s till he met Elva Farrow. She was 
a social queen and very delicate. The visits 
of my husband to her, which were at first 
professional, soon became social. His name 
was linked with hers; he was known as her 
lover. 

“He lost all shame; she, I dare say, never 
had any. He went to church with her when 
he had refused to go with me. He would 
be away from my side for a month. 

“One evening I recall too well. Paxton 
and Miss Farrow had been spending several 


THE COAL FIELDS. Ill 


weeks together at a summer resort. He re- 
turned and hardly noticed his wife, so un- 
concerned was he. 

“ ‘Why don’t you kiss mamma?’ asked my 
Warren. ‘You have been gone so long, papa.’ 

“My husband stooped down with a shamed 
flush, and pressed a sheepish kiss on my fore- 
head. And even that was welcome; oh, I 
loved him so! 

“At length Elva Farrow died, and the scan- 
dal ceased. 

“Our daughters grew to womanhood. Our 
son became more and more like his father 
in appearance. The intervening years had 
served only to widen the awful gulf between 
my husband and me. Often I cried out to 
God to let me die, to remove so cumbersome 
a burden from him. Ellen was like me in 
every respect ; she had my features, my man- 
nerisms. Not so Dallas. She was as hand- 
some a girl as I ever saw, and had the airs of 
a princess. Ellen and Warren were the only 
consolation of my life; their love took much 
of the bitterness from my draught. 

“Dallas seldom gave me more attention 
than her father did. She would have pre- 
ferred a haughty, handsome mother like the 
ladies she knew. One thing endeared her 
to me ; she was kind and loving to Ellen. 


112 


THE LILY OF 


“Both girls made their debut in society. 
Dallas, as I had expected, created a sensation 
by her beauty and majesty of mien ; Ellen — 
well, she was too much like her mother to be 
a success. 

“I remember one evening Ellen stole to 
my side, and, throwing herself on my bosom, 
burst into tears. ‘Mamma/ she sobbed, T 
don’t like society, oh, I am so miserable! 
Papa doesn’t care at all for me, Dallas takes 
all his love. Perhaps’ — oh, how my own 
heart ached as I listened ! — ‘if I were beauti- 
ful like Dallas, he would love me.’ 

“I feel that my heart would have broken 
that night, had it not been for the consolation 
of prayer. I devoured the soul-stirring pages 
of Thomas k Kempis’ ‘Imitation of Christ’. 

“So the years passed away. Every day 
increased my misery. I really think that my 
husband at length grew to hate me. 

“When on his deathbed, his last words 
were for Dallas, his last smile, his last regrets 
for her; he almost ignored my poor Ellen, 
and Warren, and me. May God forgive him ! 

“I have outlived Ellen. She died on my 
bosom. She had not been married. Dallas 
wedded a wealthy banker and is in England. 

I hear often of her, but seldom from her. 

I am happier now than I was during my hus- 


THE COAL FIELDS. 113 


band’s lifetime. Warren is a great comfort 
to me. I should be supremely happy, were 
his health better.” 

Bridget pressed a sympathizing kiss on the 
soft old cheek, and turned her head away, 
that Mrs. Steele might not see the tears in 
her eyes. Poor mother, Warren was all she 
had! 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AN UNHAPPY LOVE. 

On the following morning, when every- 
thing was cool and fresh and green after the 
autumn rain, Mrs. Steele and Bridget sat 
together near the open window in the sick- 
room. The patient was asleep. 

“Bridget, ! ” — the nurse had long ceased to 
be Miss Purcel with her and her son, — “the 
doctor has told me that my boy is growing 
worse. Do you think disappointment has 
anything to do with his condition ?” 

“Perhaps; for indeed he seems much 
depressed.” 

“Come.” 

Mrs. Steele led the way to the parlor and 
Bridget followed. The widow stopped before 
a large picture on an easel and drew aside the 
window curtains. The sunlight poured upon 
the pictured face and played about the fair 
hair and tantalizing mouth; a radiantly beau- 
tiful woman, decollette, jewels glittering in 
her ears and on her throat and bosom. The 
blue eyes looked brightly into Bridget’s; it 
seemed with a gleam of recognition in their 


THE COAL FIELDS. 115 


depths, for the face was Belle’s. Mrs. Steele 
regarded the picture so intently that Bridget 
had ample time to recover from her confusion. 

“A handsome face indeed,” she faltered. 
“I should love such a woman.” 

“A lovely woman indeed, Bridget. Where 
Warren got this picture I cannot say, but he 
worships her. I have known him to sit long 
before this picture, studying the face. Her 
name is Lora Davenport. I have never seen 
her, and I know very little about her. But I 
am aware that my son loves her madly; and 
if he dies, I cannot help but connect her in 
some way with his death. If he had more 
energy, he would get well, I am sure ; and 
energy he would have, were it not for her. 
But perhaps I am unjust.” 

After that Bridget paid more attention to 
Warren Steele. 

“I have seen a beautiful woman’s portrait 
in the parlor.” she said to him, “and I am 
very much interested in the sweet face. May 
I ask who she is?” 

“Certainly, Bridget. She is Lora Daven- 
port, and I love her. She loves me too, yet 
she refused to become my wife, when I asked 
her. T cannot,’ she said. That was all. 
There is some secret in her life. Understand 
me, she is all that is good and true and pure. 


116 


THE LILY OF 


She has a reason for not letting me know of 
her relatives, and I have never asked her about 
them.” 

He turned his bright eyes on Bridget, and 
she was pleased with the innocence she saw 
in them. Mrs. Steele had trained her son 
carefully. 

“She has always met me by stealth, but 
I ought to say that she has met me very sel- 
dom. I haven’t her address to send her a 
note. If she knew that I am sick, she would 
be here. When I was with her last, somehow 
she made me feel that we should not meet 
again. She hung on my arm and wept and 
clung to me when we were parting. ‘Trust 
and love me if we never meet again,’ she 
whispered; ‘your trust and your love are so 
sweet to me.’ And before I could remon- 
strate with her, she was gone. That was 
weeks ago. I have not seen her or heard 
from her since.” 

Bridget asked the physician one night if 
there was any change in the patient, and he 
replied that Warren Steele would not see the 
day dawn. Just as the clock was striking 
twelve, Bridget noticed a grayish tint steal 
over his face, and she knew well what that 
meant. She whispered to his mother. Mrs. 
Steele took him in her arms, and there died 
Belle’s lover. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 117 


“I shall not long survive him,” said the 
mother calmly. Nor ‘did she. 

Bridget decided to be present at the funeral; 
she felt that Belle would be there, for all the 
papers contained the account of Warren 
Steele’s death. She would veil herself that 
Belle might not know her. Oh, for one 
glance at that dear face! 


CHAPTER XIV. 


SISTER ISABELLA’S LOVE. 

Mary Breen was no longer Sister Mary 
the postulant, she was now Sister Isabella 
the novice. She wore the white veil, but she 
had as yet made no vows. She was in a hos- 
pital, and she loved the nursing. Where the 
days went to, Sister Isabella could never tell; 
so happy was she. She was an apt nurse, 
and the superioress regarded her with a 
proudly maternal eye. The patients idolized 
Sister Isabella; she was to them “like a ray 
of the sun on the walls of a prison.” 

Mother Eulalia and Sister Isabella were 
now looking, with pity in their eyes, at the 
blood-stained forehead of an unconscious man, 
as the physicians consulted together. 

“Very little hope for him, poor fellow,” 
said the chief doctor. “Beaten about the 
head, and left on the ground to die. A man 
of wealth and family too, with a fair, young 
wife.” 

Sister Isabella’s big blue eyes, full of pain 
and horror, glanced into the face of her 
superioress. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 119 


“Then if he dies, there will be another 
murderer,’’ she whispered. “And if that un- 
fortunate one has a mother, God help her 
poor gray hairs. What did you say his name 
is, Mother? Albert Brady?” 

“Mr. Renshaw is your patient, Sister Isa- 
bella,” said Mother Eulalia. “If you fail to 
save him, no one could. But why are you 
so abstracted?” 

Sister Isabella was staring at the handsome 
face of the patient. Now she raised her 
big eyes and met those of the superioress. 
The young Sister’s lips were white and drawn 
as she said in a strange voice: 

“Oh, if he should die!” 

“God bless her innocent soul,” said the 
superioress, as she glided down the corridor, 
leaving Sister Isabella alone, “how her dear 
little face paled when I told her of the crime ! 
Sweet child, she will be as simple when she 
leaves the world as she was when she came 
into it.” 

Sister Isabella took great interest in all her 
patients, but in none more than in Norton 
Renshaw. She constantly hovered, like a 
guardian angel, about his cot. His life hung 
by a thread which every moment threatened 
to snap. She prayed, she fought with death, 
she wore herself out in her watchfulness, and 


120 


THE LILY OF 


her skill and faithfulness conquered. Norton 
Renshaw was slowly improving. 

A slender woman, with golden hair and a 
dimpled face, sat by his side, when he opened 
his eyes after dreary days of darkness. He 
recognized her. “You, Anna!” His wife’s 
lips pressed his. Then he became conscious 
of another form near his bed, a black-robed 
Sister. 

“I cannot say how glad I am that you are 
better, Mr. Renshaw,” she said, with a happy 
tear in her eye. She left the husband and 
wife together. 

The weeks went on. Norton Renshaw 
was quite strong again; and he looked very 
manly and handsome, as he sat up in bed, 
his head swathed with bandages. 

“How faithful and devoted she is!” he re- 
marked to his wife, when Sister Isabella had 
left the room. “You yourself, dear, could 
not be kinder or more indefatigable. This 
Sister — Isabella you call her ? — what a beau- 
tiful woman she is! A woman, I say; she is 
scarcely more than a girl; she has a girl’s 
delicate bloom in her cheeks.” 

“Indeed she has a face; and I dare say a 
figure too, if she only wore clothes to show it. 
That dress of hers is so much of a bag, yet 
she wears it gracefully. Horrors, I would 


THE COAL FIELDS. 121 


be a fright in such a thing. And her hair 
gone too, awful to think of! What a furore 
she would create in society !” 

“I wonder if she ever loved, Anna?” 

Mrs. Renshaw looked shyly and inquiringly 
at her husband. “Was there any special 
reason why you asked that question, Norton ?” 

“No, you little goose; why should there 
be?” and he looked inquiringly at her. 

“Well, if I were not so certain that I have 
your love, and were inclined to be jealous, 
I should fear Sister Isabella. Whether she 
ever loved before or not, is no matter; she is 
in love now — with you. Yes, she loves you ; 
no woman on earth, religious or lay, would so 
toil for a man unless she had some special 
reason for it; such as her love of him. Sister 
Isabella has literally torn you from the jaws 
of death. She has done more than her duty. 
O Norton dear, we can never, never thank 
her enough. She was ever by your side. I 
have watched that earnest expression on her 
face, and that look of grief and anxiety in 
her lovely eyes. From Sunday morning till 
Saturday night, from Saturday night till 
Sunday morning, you were in her thoughts. 
And, oh, my dear,” the wife’s arms stole round 
his neck, “lam sorry for her.” 

When Sister Isabella returned with a lunch 


122 


THE LILY OF 


he looked sharply at her face; very white it 
was to-day, he noticed. 

“You will soon leave us, Mr. Renshaw,” 
she said. “Your wife,” with a smile, “is 
anxious to have you at home again.” Then 
a shade of care came into the Sister’s mild 
blue eyes. 

“Yes, I want him to be strong at once, that 
he may send his would-be murderer to prison,” 
the wife made answer, and her soft face hard- 
ened. “Ugh, that Albert Brady! What if 
you had died, Norton, dear!” 

“I suppose, Mr. Renshaw, that the culprit 
will be sent to prison for years?” Sister 
Isabella’s sweet voice was husky, as she gazed 
at his handsome face. 

“Yes, indeed, Sister, and he deserves it. 
Crime great, sentence long, you know.” 

Sister Isabella had slipped to her knees 
by the cot, and was weeping hysterically. 
Mrs. Renshaw looked superciliously indig- 
nant; the Sister ought to have more self- 
control; why did she enter the convent, since 
she might have known she would fall in love ? 
But Renshaw’s heart swelled with pity for 
the bowed figure. 

“O Mr. Renshaw, if I have done anything 
for you during your stay here, and I have 
tried to do my best, grant me the boon I ask 


THE COAL FIELDS. 123 


of you on my knees. Spare the culprit; he 
is my mother’s youngest brother, her only 
one, the only near relative she has; wild and 
dissipated, but, oh, so dear to her and to me. 
God has given you back your life; give me 
my uncle’s liberty.” 

Mrs. Renshaw understood, and her heart 
overflowed with womanly feeling. She gath- 
ered the slender Sister to her bosom. 

“You need not ask that favor of Norton in 
vain,” she said. 

“Your uncle will be set free, Sister Isabella; 
you saved my life; that is the least I can do 
for you; measure for measure; no word of tes- 
timony will I utter against him.” 

It was the shadowy hour of evening. She 
was in the reception room, a man sitting at 
her side. He was sobbing out his contrition 
and his resolutions for the future. Would he 
keep these resolutions? Sister Isabella’s face 
wore a sad little smile as she listened to 
them. 

“Uncle dear,” she whispered, “if in the 
future you need a friend, don’t fear to send 
word to me; mother charged me when I left 
Montgomery, to pray every day for you.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


FAREWELL TO THE CONVENT. 

The soft rain had heen falling for nearly an 
hour. Bridget glanced up from the stocking 
she was darning, and out through the window. 
The grass, sparkling with raindrops, and 
studded here and there with the lowly, much 
despised dandelion flower, resembled an im- 
mense green carpet. The fruit trees were 
drenched with rain, and the mellow fruits 
looked especially tempting with their pink- 
and-red sides bedewed. 

Sister Isabella, who sat near Bridget, was 
examining a worn coif. Both had been silent 
for the last few minutes listening to the sleep- 
inviting music of the rain, as their needles 
worked away. 

“You did not know, Bridget,” said Sister 
Isabella, “that we have an insane Sister here ? 
She is the tall, solemn-faced, grand-looking 
woman that you have seen in Room H. She 
has been insane for something over eight years. 
She is like a child, not at all violent. She 
sometimes lies in her bed, and, when I enter 
her room, she will not eat. She says then 


THE COAL FIELDS. 125 


that she is in Purgatory. At other times she 
thinks she is our superioress, and gently orders 
us to be regular in our visits to the Blessed 
Sacrament. ‘The Lord of this house must 
not be left alone/ she will say. My heart 
aches every time I see her. She is quite sick 
to-day, so sick that the doctors have little 
hope for her recovery. Sister Antoninus is 
waiting on her. The name of the insane 
Sister is Elizabeth. Pray for her often, 
Bridget; I do not want her to die without 
regaining her reason.” 

After Mass next morning, Sister Isabella 
came to Bridget. “Oh, Bridget,” she said, 
“poor Sister Elizabeth passed away at day- 
break.” Sister Isabella saw a question in the 
nurse’s eyes. “No, thank God, she was not 
insane when she died. Her reason returned 
to her just an hour before God took her from 
this world. Oh, what a beautiful death it 
was! She was really the Sister of Mercy then. 
She looked like a lovely saint. When she 
saw me weeping, she mildly rebuked me. 
‘Why do you weep, Sister?’ she said. ‘I am 
not afraid to die. Why should I, Sister Mary 
Elizabeth, fear to go before God ? Am I not 
a Sister of Mercy, a spouse of Christ ?’ She 
then began to speak as if our blessed Lord 
Himself were in the room. ‘ Mother Me Auley 


126 


THE LILY OF 


and the other Sisters of Mercy in 
heaven, are coming to meet me, dear Sisters/ 
she said. ‘Oh, the joy!’ She breathed out 
her soul with the name of Jesus on her lips. 
After almost nine years of madness, she died 
as sane as we are. I shall never forget that 
death, but I am glad that she died as she did, 
yet I cannot help weeping when I think of 
her sad life. What a terrible thing insanity 
is!” 

Poor Sister Isabella, Bridget often wept 
for her afterwards. On that very morning 
was enacted the bitter tragedy of the young 
novice’s own happy life. 

The beautiful young novice had one severe 
cross; she was troubled with violent headaches 
which the doctors could not satisfactorily ex- 
plain. The explanation came; a terrible, a 
crushing explanation to both the superioress 
and Sister Isabella. 

The young novice was summoned to the 
Mother’s room. Sister Isabella saw that the 
nun’s eyes were brimful of tears, and that 
her features were working in agony. 

“Sit down, dear — there by the window, 
where you will get the full benefit of the fresh 
air.” 

Sister Isabella sank into the chair, and 
looked through the open window into the 


THE COAL FIELDS. 127 


garden. The soft delicate breeze brought 
to her nostrils the perfume and sweetness of 
the flowers below. What could have hap- 
pened? Was her mother dead, or perhaps 
her father, or dear little Mattie ? A nameless 
fear pressed on the young girl’s heart. Oh, 
why did not the superioress relieve her mind ? 
A pause ensued; then the nun spoke: 

“Sister Isabella, did you ever see your 
father ?” 

“No, Mother; Mr. Breen is the only father 
I have ever known. My father, Richard 
Horan, died when I was but a day old, and 
two years later my mother married Mr. Breen, 
who has always been a real father to me, and 
who loves me as much as he does his own 
child Mattie, But didn’t my mother tell 
you anything about that?” 

“She did, Sister, but I can’t say what 
made me think that perhaps you did not know 
it. Have you ever met any of your father’s 
relatives?” 

“I have never seen any of them.” She 
flushed slightly. “My mother’s first marriage 
was unfortunate — but perhaps she told you 
of it?” 

The religious said nothing; she wanted the 
novice to talk. God help the girl, her life 
would be ruined soon enough! 


128 


THE LILY OF 


“Richard Horan was fairly well-to-do, and 
had a college education. My mother was 
pretty and winning, a prototype of our Mattie. 
My father saw her, fell in love and married 
her. They were man and wife but a short 
time when he realized that he had made a 
mistake; she had no education, his relatives 
despised her; he grew ashamed of her and 
finally deserted her. He was killed in an ac- 
cident the day after I was born. My 
mother received no word of his death till 
later.’ * 

“Sister, why did you come to the convent ?” 

“Why, Mother?” — in surprise. “Be- 
cause I felt that God wanted me here; be- 
cause I desired to be a nun that I might save 
my soul by working for my neighbor.” 

“You came because you thought that God 
wanted you here; suppose He should not, 
what then?” 

A little silence before the faltering answer 
came: 

“Then — then I would — leave the convent 
and go where His will called me.” 

Every muscle in the superioress’ face was 
working with emotion. “Sister, suppose God 
should strike you blind, and you could not 
become a religious?” 

The quick-witted novice saw that the nun 


THE COAL FIELDS. 129 


had sad news to communicate and was cir- 
cumlocuting, but what the nature of the 
news was, she could not conjecture. 

“Mother, God’s will be done always. He 
is my Father; I am His child, and His will is, 
or should be, my law. He knows what is 
best for us all ; we can do nothing better than 
to throw ourselves into His arms, and let him 
bear us whithersoever He may. He has num- 
bered the hairs of our heads. But you know 
all this; you have taught me; and these ques- 
tions, why ask them ? You are trying to spare 
me, Mother, indeed you are; tell me what the 
bad news is; I can bear it; I am strong.” 

The nun saw r the young novice’s soul shin- 
ing from her eyes; and what a soul had that 
fragile girl! 

“Sister, I am obliged to send you home.” 

The superioress turned and looked away 
from the novice. She expected her to cry 
aloud or faint, but no sound came from the 
girl’s white lips. Her face was marble; then 
burst forth wild, incoherent words: 

“But why — why? I have kept every rule 
— have always obeyed — have tried to pre- 
serve myself from every stain — have en- 
deavored to be perfect!” 

The superioress took her spiritual daughter 
in her arms. “I know you have child, I 


130 


THE LILY OF 


know you have. Oh, Sister, Sister,” with 
a gush of tears, “I had tried to prepare you 
for a hard blow, but words are inadequate.” 

No tears from Sister Isabella ; her grief was 
too great to allow of weeping. 

“The hardest blow has crashed upon me, 
Mother; I should rather die than give up the 
convent.” 

“But there is another blow; oh, Sister, such 
a blow! Oh, that it should ever be my duty 
to cause such misery!” 

“I see, Mother, there is some reason for 
your action,” — with calmness; her heart 
seemed to have become ice. “Tell me at once 
what it is. If you keep me in suspense for 
five minutes more, my heart will give away 
beneath the strain. Tell me all — all, terrible 
though it be.” 

“Your father’s brother, George Horan, 
went insane recently.” The Sister had de- 
layed the direful news as long as she could, 
but now she thought it better to tell all the 
terrible truth in the fewest possible words. 
“Investigation proved that the insanity was 
hereditary, that his father had died insane. 
Our rules will not allow us to keep you, dear.” 

The superioress suppressed a desire to flee 
from the sight of the novice’s grief. Oh, w T hy 
did not the girl scream! Even that would 
have been a relief; but this awful silence! 


THE COAL FIELDS. 131 


“And that explains my headaches! Oh, 
my God, my God, I may go mad too!” 

Sister Isabella was on her knees, now she 
lay like a broken lily upon the floor. The 
superioress never forgot the moans that came 
to her ears. Oh, if the girl would only weep, 
would only make the hospital ring with her 
cries! And her reason, would it not give way 
beneath the crushing force of this fearful blow ? 
The Sister raised the lithesome form. There 
was no resistance; the novice might have 
been flung into a fiery furnace, so passive 
was she. 

“Come to the chapel, dear, come!” 

She led the stricken girl before the altar 
and left her there. 

God alone could console her, human aid 
was powerless in such a case. 

[That never-to-be-forgotten morning dragged 
away. She was no longer Sister Isabella, 
she was Mary Breen again. She looked like 
a picture in her traveling costume. She wore 
a plain little black hat with a thick veil, for 
her long, glossy tresses had been shorn before 
she received the habit of the Order. She had 
bidden the nuns good-bye. She was calm 
now, and there was resignation in her face. 

She paid a last visit to the chapel that was 
so dear to her. Perhaps she would never lay 


132 


THE LILY OF 


her eyes on it again, she thought; and she 
never did. Mother Eulalia knelt near the 
door, as Mary Breen prostrated herself 
before the altar. She lay there on her 
face for some time, so still she might have 
been a corpse. As the Apostles felt when the 
cloud had received their Lord out of their 
sight and they stood looking up to heaven, 
so felt Mary Breen now. She went before 
our Lady’s statue where she had so often and 
with so light and fervent a heart said her 
beads. 

“Come, Mother, I am strong now.” There 
was a sad little smile on Mary’s lips. “His 
divine will be done.” 

“Mary, God has some special design in 
your regard; there is a great work awaiting 
you in the world. What that work is, God 
alone knows. You may not find it till the 
world and I are separated, but find it you 
will.’ 

Mary Breen thought of those words after- 
wards — when she had found her work. 

Oh, that short, but dreary drive from the 
hospital in the closed cab with the superioress! 
Neither of the two women could ever recall 
it afterwards without tears. Mary said no 
word, nor did the nun; their hearts were too 
full. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 133 


Mary Breen, her veil down, stood with the 
superioress on the station platform. The 
girl looked back at the hospital; at its slated 
roof, from which the sun was glancing; at 
its open windows, through which she could 
see the Sisters moving about among the sick ; 
at its terraces; at its spacious grounds with 
the flower beds. She felt a sinking at her 
heart; and she saw no more, for tears blinded 
her. Something told her that she was taking 
her last look at the home wherein she had 
been so happy. 

The train had pulled into the station, and 
now stood wheezing like some aged, wild 
animal. 

“A-all a-a-bo-ard!” in the musical and 
soothing voice of the conductor. 

Mary threw up her veil and turned, with 
tears streaming down her cheeks, to the weep- 
ing superioress. 

“Good-bye, Mother.” She was shaking 
with sobs now. 

“Mary, be the same brave girl that you 
have been. In all your trials you know to 
whom you must look. God has shown his 
predilection for you in afflicting you; whom 
the Lord loveth, He chastiseth. ‘Afflictions 
are the most certain pledge that God can give 
us of the love He bears us.’ ” 


134 


THE LILY OF 


“With His grace, I can do all things, 
Mother,” responded Mary; “may I never 
abuse it!” 

She was on the train and in a seat. She 
scarcely realized that the train was moving. 
She looked through the raised window at the 
thin form of the Sister. Ferhaps she would 
never again see that dear, patient woman. 
She tried to rise that she might lean from the 
window to say a last farewell, but her strength 
had left her. Her head fell helplessly on the 
seat; she saw through a mist the kind, pain- 
distorted face of Mother Eulalia, and then 
the cars rolled away. 

As the train tore along, Mary lay in her seat 
like one stupified. The entire afternoon wore 
away, but she did not once rise. The dainty 
lunch in her traveling bag was forgotten. 

The other passengers looked inquiringly 
at the heavily veiled girl. Two men sitting 
opposite to her were giving her their undi- 
vided attention. 

“I’ll wager she’s a beauty,” whispered one. 
“Look at her figure, a sculptor could never 
carve a better.” 

“Ye gods, what hands!” said the other. 
“No wonder that Hawthorne’s Kenyon sculp- 
tured Hilda’s hand if it was as beautiful as 
one of those.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 135 


Two women, one old, the other young, 
were holding an earnest conversation, and 
from their nods and frequent glances in 
Mary’s direction, it was evident that she was 
the topic under discussion. The sighs which 
came from the unhappy girl’s lips, and the 
involuntary little wirings which she ever and 
anon gave her hands, told them that she was 
not asleep. 

And Mary, she hardly realized that there 
were people around her, that she was not 
alone. She was trying to pray, trying to lift 
up her heart from the depths of misery into 
which it had been plunged. 

Evening shades were falling round. Mary 
raised her veil, and laid her cheek against 
the cool window-pane. The men who had 
sat opposite to her were gone, and the two 
women had at once taken the seat vacated by 
them. They gave a little exclamation when 
they saw Mary’s lovely face; but she heard 
them not; her grief was a wall that shut her 
off from all the world. 

She closed her eyes, and fell into a stream 
of bitter reflection. She was going back to 
the coal mines, the unexpected had come. 
Had she been less religious, she might have 
prayed for death, so great was her disappoint- 
ment. No more sweet convent life for her; 


136 


THE LILY OF 


no more of the happy days that had been ; no 
longer would she wear the religious habit 
and veil, the loss of which almost broke her 
heart. She was alone in the dreary desert 
of the world again. She had ranked herself 
among the chosen people of God, and now 
found that she had no right to be there. 
She was not an Israelite, she was an intruder 
in the favored band; to her it was not per- 
mitted to rest beneath the shade of the Pillar 
of Cloud by day, or to travel by the light of 
the Pillar of Fire by night. She was no longer 
to feast her famishing soul with the heavenly 
Manna of the chosen ones. 

She had her hand on a little crucifix she 
carried in her bosom, and the touch of that 
consoled her. It brought back the memory 
of One who had been “led as a sheep to the 
slaughter.” 

She was about to resume the old life, the 
life that she thought she had given up for- 
ever; about to return to Montgomery, to her 
family that she had left, as she thought, for 
all time. They knew, of course, the truth; 
that she was standing on the brink of the 
awful gulf of insanity, into which she might 
fall at any time. The very thought almost 
drove her mad. 

A vision of a narrow, padded cell with a 


THE COAL FIELDS. 137 


grated window, through which stole a single 
ray of grey light, came before her. She saw 
a womar, with wild eyes and terrible face, 
chained to the wall, a gibbering, insane crea- 
ture. With a mighty effort, she sent up a 
prayer to the great white throne of God, and 
the appalling picture vanished like a mist be- 
fore the sun. Human nature of itself could 
not have supported so great a tension; re- 
ligion was her stay. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE ENDING OF A FEUD. 

Bridget called to see Mrs. Steele on the 
day of her son’s funeral. 

“She has been here,” said the old lady ab- 
bruptly, “so beautiful, the woman my son 
loved. She came veiled, but as she looked 
at him in his coffin, she put her veil up, that 
she might better view his face. I saw her; 
small wonder my dear Warren loved her. 
But she did not speak to me. She slipped 
out before I could detain her.” 

Bridget scanned every woman’s face at the 
funeral, but she was doomed to disappoint- 
ment; Belle was not there. 

Bridget spent all that day in the sewing 
room with Sister Antoninus. The nun knew 
well how Bridget loved Sister Isabella, and 
how she missed her, so she was not surprised 
to find her sewing companion quiet and sad 
to-day — something very unusual for Bridget. 
The Sister fell to talking about nuns she knew. 

“You are aware, Bridget, what feuds mean 
in the United States. Well, a Sister of Mercy 
was the means of ending one which had lasted 


THE COAL FIELDS. 139 


for years. She was a little bit of a woman, 
was Sister Petronilla, with big eyes and a thin, 
tanned face. Her hands were like a baby’s, 
they were so small, but were as hard as boards. 

“The superioress had rented a large build- 
ing in the South or West, and found it hard 
to make ends meet. She sent Sister Petronil- 
la to collect money from the ranches. They 
say that the Sister got together a very large 
sum. 

“She was accompanied by a Miss Large, 
who is now a Sister of Mercy, and from whom 
I learned these facts. 

“Sister Petronilla and Miss Large collected 
at Media. Having finished there, they wished 
to go to Cedar Creek, a town some hundred 
miles distant. 

“In those days, trains did not run so fre- 
quently between the towns, as they do now. 
The men at Media told Sister Petronilla that 
she could get no train to Cedar Creek till the 
next evening. It was then only noon. 

“ ‘ But I want to get there tomorrow 
morning,’ she said. 

“There was no team-road between Media 
and Cedar Creek. 

“ ‘ Isn’t there any way at all to get to Cedar 
Creek before tomorrow evening?’ asked the 
Sister. 


140 


THE LILY OF 


“ 'There is only one way that I know of/ 
replied one of the men, 'and that is to go by 
way of the tooltruck, which the railroad men 
left here last week.’ 

“ 'We will go on that/ said the Sister. 

"And they did. Everything went along 
smoothly, the Sister and the girl sitting on 
the front of the truck, and a man propelling it. 

"Sister Petronilla was watching the sills 
as she flew over them. Suddenly the brave 
little soul screamed and jumped off the truck. 
Miss Large screamed too, so did the man; 
thev felt that the Sister had certainly been 
killed. 

"He went back when he got the truck 
stopped, and found Sister Petronilla stanching 
with her handkerchief the blood that oozed 
from a cut in her hand. She was not hurt 
much. 

" 'Why did you jump off?’ he asked. 

" 'I saw a green snake on the track, and it 
frightened me.’ 

"He laughed heartily, so did she. As they 
went to the truck, they saw that the snake 
had been killed by it — a reptile about a foot 
long. 

"The truck reached Cedar Creek next 
morning. Between Joe Kline and Pete 
Smith, at Cedar Creek, there existed a feud. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 141 


Old Tom Kline, Joe’s father, hated old 
Daniel Smith, Pete’s father. After a num- 
ber of quarrels, they shot each other dead. 
The sons had each his share of his father’s 
hatred. Joe and Pete were married before 
they came to any serious encounter. 

“Joe Kline’s wife took Sister Petronilla 
to her home. She was a religious woman, 
and she made the Sister and Miss Large 
comfortable. 

“Sister Petronilla was in a tent eating a 
lunch when Joe’s wife ran screaming to her 
side. 

“ c O Sister, Sister! come! come! Come 
with me for God’s sake, Sister! Pete Smith 
and my husband are going to fight with 
pistols.’ 

“Sister Petronilla was out like a flash of 
lightning. Miss Large fell on her knees, and 
prayed so loudly that every one about could 
hear her. 

“Sure enough, Joe and Pete were squared 
off, and were just about to fire. No one 
knew where she came from, but before any 
of the men who had gathered around could 
speak, a little black figure with a floating veil 
sprang between the two enemies. She pulled 
Pete Smith’s pistol from his hands, and pelted 
it far away from her. 


142 


THE LILY OF 


“‘You will not shoot an unarmed man!’ 
she said, turning to Joe Kline. 

“Joe threw down his weapon, and gave 
Pete a kind look. ‘No, nor do I want to 
shoot any man,’ he said. 

“A mighty cheer went up to heaven from 
the men who were standing around, a cheer 
for the fearless little Sister. She talked to 
those two big men, did that little woman, and 
told them of God’s mercy towards the erring. 

“Her voice was as sweet as a silver bell, 
and she could talk in a way that no one was 
able to resist. She saw Joe and Pete shake 
hands and promise to be good friends, — a 
promise they kept. The two wives kissed 
each other and wept for joy. 

“That night a heavy rain fell, and the wind 
blew so fiercely about the little tent in which 
slept Sister Petronilla and Miss Large, that 
its two occupants feared every moment it 
would be torn from over their heads. No 
such accident happened, however. When 
morning dawned, Sister Petronilla learned 
that all the other tents had been blown away. 
Hers had been saved from a like fate by the 
men who held it down all that stormy night. 
Turn by turn, the men had quietly taken their 
post at the tent, each proud and eager to serve 
the Sister.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 143 


“Where is the Sister now?” asked Bridget. 

“Dead.” 

“And Miss Large?” 

‘Living. She is here to-day, but you 
would not be allowed to see her and speak 
with her. I must not tell you anything about 
her. Hurry here to the window; she is just 
getting into a carriage.” 

Bridget looked out and saw two nuns. 
The face of one was turned toward the sewing 
room, and Bridget recognized the features 
at once. It was her mysterious friend 
Louise. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A LUCKY LOSS. 

Bridget fell into a deep silence for a while. 
She was glad that Louise was safe again in 
her convent home. 

At length Bridget brightened up; clouds 
always pass away, and the sun shines, she 
thought. She looked at Sister Antoninus’ 
work. It w r as done with colored silk threads, 
so fine that Arachne herself could scarcely 
have spun a finer, and represented an over- 
turned basket of roses. So deftly was it 
executed that Bridget almost instinctively 
leaned forward to pick up one of the fallen 
flowers. She noticed that Sister Antoninus 
sewed with her left hand, her right being 
concealed under her work. 

“Sister,” she said, “your needle is better 
than the brush of many an artist.” 

Sister Antoninus laughed a little at the 
compliment. “Yet I do not care very much 
for needle work,” she said. “I think I 
acquire more merit in this than in any other 
of my active duties; I so dislike' the needle.” 

Then the subject was turned to religious 
vocation^ — a new theme for Bridget. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 145 


“Have you, Sister, ever known any girl 
who lost her religious vocation?” 

“No, but I know one that came very near 
losing hers. I have half a mind to tell you 
about her.” 

“O do, Sister,” Bridget pleaded. 

“Well,” and the bright little needle, with 
its long, shining, glossy hair, flew' faster than 
ever, “wee’ll call this lady Eula DeLong — a 
pretty name, don’t you think so? Eula was 
beautiful, and had many accomplishments, 
among which music held the highest place. 
She w'as an excellent piano-player, and had 
been graduated from a first-class academy of 
music. It was not a Catholic institution. 
Eula was only seventeen then. 

“She felt that God wanted her in the con- 
vent, and she knew that her parents, being 
wealthy, did not need her. They were a 
saintly couple; and though Eula was their 
only child and the sunshine of their old age, 
she was aware that they would ask nothing 
better than to see her make the vows of a 
religious. No one knew of Eula’s budding 
vocation, save hei confessor. She kept the 
thought of her religious calling, pondering 
it in her heart. 

‘“My parents shall be informed of it in a 
good time,’ said Eula to herself. 


146 


t T H E LILY OF 


“Eula, however, was vain, and praise al- 
ways turned her shallow little head. Shortly 
after her return from school, she played at an 
entertainment. Her music created a furore. 
Her touch was ‘divine’, a romantic newspaper 
reporter wrote. The following evening the 
newspaper said that Eula DeLong, in the 
musical line, was a gem that would not be 
hidden in the dark, unfathomed ocean of 
obscurity. Of course, it was a country town 
that Eula lived in, and it was a country paper 
that contained the lengthy article on her skill ; 
yet Eula was a prodigy. Her silly brain was 
put at odds w 7 ith her heart by this flattery. 

“She played in public again soon after, 
and again she was a success. Eula was much 
sought after both by Catholics and Protestants. 
She played in churches, in private dwellings, 
at concerts — everywhere, in short. Soon her 
attention w^as entirely taken up with music. 
She was wont to draw before her mind’s eye 
a bright picture of her future. She should 
become a professional player, and should 
travel. God by degrees was fading from her 
thoughts. The fancied applause of thou 
sands drowned the ringing of the convent bell 
she used to have in her ears. The towering 
opera shut out from her sight the ivy-mantled 
walls of the consent. A beautiful woman, in 


THE COAL FIELDS. 147 


Eula’s imagination, took the place of the soft- 
featured nun that of old had been there. 
In short she had abandoned her vocation. 
She had sold her birthright for a mess of 
pottage. 

“One evening she was standing beside an 
open window of her home, and looking ab- 
stractedly out at the softly undulating lawn. 
God had come back to her thoughts. She 
knew that He wanted her in the convent; 
but she wanted to be before the public eye. 
He seemed to plead with her, but she refused 
to hearken. He threatened punishment, and 
she turned cold with fear. How powerful 
God is! He had given her musical talent. 
She was aware that she ought to use it for 
His honor and glory. There was a mighty 
struggle going on in Eula’s heart, as she 
raised her uneasy eyes to look at the setting 
sun. She drew a chair to the window, and 
laid her small white hand on the sill. A large 
Japanese vase was placed under the sash to 
keep it up, and Eula’s elbow struck that. 
Down came the window with a crash. Eula 
remembered only a stinging pain that ran 
through her fingers, her hand, her arm — and 
that was all, for she fainted. The second 
and third fingers of her right hand w r ere so 
badly crushed that they had to be amputated. 


148 


THE LILY OF 


I need not put Eula’s grief and remorse of 
conscience in words.” 

“Did she go to the convent?” 

“Yes — but that was a year after. When 
about to make her final vows she thought of 
our dear Saviour’s words: Tf thy hand scan- 
dalize thee cut it off, it is better for thee to 
enter into life maimed, than having two hands 
to go into hell.’ ” Stitch! Stitch! 

“And may I ask, is she still living?” 

Stitch! “Ye-es,” stitch! “yes, she is living, 
and is very happy in the convent. She loves 
music passionately, and it is the greatest cross 
of her life that she cannot play. Yet she feels 
that God’s way of dealing with her was gentle. 
What might not have become of her, had He 
not reached forth His fatherly hand, and 
snatched her from the edge of the precipice 
whither her steps were leading her ! She ne ver 
hears a note of music, Bridget, but a tear steals 
into her eyes. It brings back vividly her 
sin and what she has lost.” 

As Sister Antoninus turned to leave, her 
work slipped from her hand to the floor. 
She stooped to pick it up; and Bridget 
noticed that the second and third fingers of 
her right hand were gone. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A WIFE’S SACRIFICE. 

Bridget noticed a new patient in one of 
the poorer wards of the hospital — a pale 
thin man beside whom sat a woman, holding 
his hot hand in both of hers. He had just 
come that morning. The woman was young, 
scarcely five and twenty, and was fair to 
look at. Her hair a golden-brown, severely 
brushed back from her pure, colorless face; 
her eyes, blue and limpid; her hands well- 
shaped, though roughened by labor. The 
man could not be more than thirty. His face, 
despite its emaciation and the dark circles 
beneath the eyes, was handsome. 

The sick man’s eyes opened, and rested 
lovingly on the sweet face at his side. 

“ Delia, you must be very happy to-day, 
the day of my conversion,” Bridget heard 
him say. “O little wife, how patient, how 
gentle, how loving you are!” He pressed 
her hand. “Your prayers have saved me 
from eternal ruin. How much misery, how 
many hours of gloom I might have saved 
myself in the past, had my heart been less 
hard!” 


150 


THE LILY OF 


“O James, forget the past,” the wife an- 
swered. “God has blotted it out for ever. 
Not my poor prayers, but His mercy has saved 
you from yourself and the enemy. James 
dear, how good God is to you and me ! How 
can we ever thank Him for the great blessing 
of your conversion! I sinned when I mar- 
ried you, you a godless man, but God has 
forgotten your iniquity and mine.” 

Bridget learned the story from Mother 
Eulalia. James Dickson, four years before, 
w 7 edded Delia Carroll. He was an infidel; 
she, a Catholic. Delia’s only living relative, 
a brother, objected to the match, but she was 
obstinate. She said that she should see the 
day w r hen James would be a fervent Catholic, 
would accompany her to Mass, and would 
say the Rosary with her. As the years glided 
away, and James still persisted in his atheism, 
Delia’s heart grew sad, at times almost de- 
spaired. He was very kind to her, and in- 
terfered in no way with her religion, but he 
was far from following in her footsteps. She 
offered her trials, her prayers, her sufferings, 
all her merits to God for her husband’s 
conversion. 

They were poor. Every morning, after 
he kissed her good-bye and slung his battered 
dinner pail on his arm, she would watch the 


THE COAL FIELDS. 151 


stalwart figure until it vanished, and would 
sigh: “How long, O Lord, how long must 
this barrier exist between me and the one I 
love best on earth, my all ? Must he be lost, 
O my God? Nay, my love and Your mercy 
will save him. Lord, afflict me, but spare 
my husband.” 

Two weeks before, James met with a severe 
accident at the works. Delia’s heart gave 
a great agonized leap when she saw the am- 
bulance drive by her door to the hospital. 
One swift prayer to the Mother of Sorrows 
came from her lips. James was not dead — 
praised be God! She bore up well under the 
hard blow ; she did not shriek or faint — only 
moaned. He could not recover, wiseacres 
said. 

Delia redoubled her prayers for the con- 
version of her husband. Tn the long watches 
of the night, when she sat by his pillow, and 
wet his burning lips, and brushed with her 
cool hands the masses of hair from his damp 
forehead, she begged God to take her in his 
stead. But God willed otherwise. 

Her prayers were heard. The divine grace 
touched her husband’s heart, and the puri- 
fying waters of baptism flowed over his 
brow. He was now fit for the kingdom of 
God. 


152 


THE LILY OF 


Mother Eulalia and the priest whose hand 
cleansed every stain from James Dickson’s 
soul, came to the injured man’s bed. He 
was sleeping. 

“Mrs. Dickson,” the priest’s kind eyes 
beamed upon her, “I have good news for you; 
the doctor has told me that your husband will 
soon be well again.” Her lips quivered pit- 
eously ; her hands fell helpless in her lap, and 
she burst into tears. “But, child, why do 
you weep?” 

“Father,” — how like a saint she looked as 
she stood there, her slight form trembling, 
her great eyes shining with tears! — “since our 
marriage, my one prayer has been for my 
husband’s conversion. God has heard my 
petition. James will never again be as in- 
nocent, as pleasing in God’s eyes as he is now ; 
to-day he is as pure as snow. And I want 
God to take him. I don’t think that I am 
wrong in wishing this.” 

The priest’s heart was too full for words; 
he looked fixedly at the wan, patient face, 
then turning, left the room. 

The prayers of Delia’s faithful heart reached 
the great throne of God; James died — died 
w T ith his head on Delia’s bosom, with her 
hand in his, her voice breathing prayers into 
his ear. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 153 


She knelt alone with her dead, tears of grat- 
itude to God flowing down her cheeks. She 
did not forget that James was her all on earth, 
that she was now poor and must earn her 
bread by the sweat of her brow. She knew 
that her home was gone, that life would hence- 
forth be a great blank for her. But she w T as 
grateful to God for His mercies. 

Mother Eulalia stole to the mourning wife’s 
side. She smiled up through her tears into 
the Sister’s face. 

“He is in heaven, Mother Tuilalia,” she 
said, “but heaven after all is not so very far 
away. A few short years — for the longest 
life is very brief, — and we shall meet, never, 
never to part again.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


MARY BREEN’S LIFE AT MONT- 
GOMERY. 

She was home, among the old scenes 
again; back with the dear ones, “mam, pap, 
and Mattie;” but though these loved her 
more than ever, though she loved them just 
as dearly, it was no longer home for her. 
She had tasted the manna of the religious life, 
and her soul was starving amidst the fleshpots 
of her present existence. She had lived for 
more than a year beneath the same roof 
with the Bridegroom, and now she was far 
from Him most of the day. 

It was evening, a spring evening in a 
coal-mining town. The collieries had sus- 
pended operations, and the miners were at 
home. There was quiet at Montgomery. 

Mrs. Breen had lighted the lamp. The 
simple supper was over, and the family was 
grouped about Mary, as she sat in her old 
rocker in the sitting-and-dining room. 

The clock on the little bracket — an ancient 
clock, with a voice like a jew’s harp — had 
just struck seven. Mrs. Breen was plying 


THE COAL FIELDS. 155 


her needle at the heel of an old gray sock. 
Breen was lying on a worn lounge, enjoying 
his corncob pipe. As he smoked, he kept 
his eyes fastened on Mary. Martha Breen, 
looking very young and pretty in her calico 
dress, sat with a big Maltese cat in her lap. 
She sighed as she looked at the dispirited 
face of her sister. Mary was lovelier than 
ever. Martha thought that she looked even 
better with her hair short, than she did with 
her luxuriant tresses. Martha was in an 
agony of mind. Brian Munley, during her 
sister’s absence, had grown to be fond of 
Martha. He had not seen Mary since her 
return from the convent; and Martha 
feared that the old flame might revive in his 
heart when his eyes fell on her beautiful face 
again. But Martha was not jealous; she was 
too noble for that and, besides, she was well 
aware of the fact that Mary would never 
marry. 

Almost every one at Montgomery knew of 
Mary’s return from the convent, and they 
knew also of the cause. Her uncle’s hered- 
itary insanity had been bandied about by the 
gossips, whose name v/as legion at Mont- 
gomery. They knew that Mary would never 
have left the convent unless sent home, and 
they hit on the inherited insanity as the cause 


156 


THE LILY OF 


of her dismissal. Religious Orders in the 
Catholic Church will not receive as members 
any one in whose family insanity is hereditary. 
But some uncharitable tongues — oh, that 
such were more rare! talked unkindly of 
Mary Breen, and said that “they were sure, 
if it were looked into, she wasn’t such a saint 
as she pretended to be;” that “you could 
never trust those meek-faced ones in whose 
mouth even butter wouldn’t melt .” But Mary 
on hearing of these detractions, rejoiced that 
she was accounted worthy to suffer reproach 
for her Lord. “He will show you how great 
things you must suffer for His name’s sake,” 
had said the Sister-superior; and her words 
were already coming true. 

Brian Munley was to visit the Breens this 
evening, and Martha looked forward to his 
coming with an anxious dread. Was his old 
love for Mary dead? Martha thought not; 
she prayed that it was. 

As soon as Brian saw Mary, that question 
was answered for Martha. His eyes sparkled 
with the old pleasure as he held her hand 
— held it too long, thought Martha, Fie gazed 
into her frank, uplifted eyes, with his great 
love in his own, but his gaze was lost on 
Mary. 

“We’re glad to have you with us again, 


THE COAL FIELDS. 157 


Mary,” he said. “There’ll always be a wel- 
come for you at Montgomery.” 

She smiled sadly. 

He hung on her every w r ord that night; he 
seemed to forget that Martha existed. He 
was aware of Mary’s inherited insanity; 
would he, notwithstanding, have made her 
his wife if she had consented ? He undoubt- 
edly w r ould have; he never once thought of 
what the consequences of such a union might 
be; he knew only the present, there was no to- 
come in his love for her. But Mary did not 
understand why his hand, his great, strong 
hand, trembled when it touched hers, or why 
his eyes looked at her so, or why the flush 
came into his cheeks, though Martha did 
who sat watching the two from a corner. 
She was angry with herself for feeling so 
wTetched, but nature would have her sway. 

Poor little girl! She cried herself sick that 
evening. She sat before the walnut-stained 
bureau in her room, and looked at her face 
in the cheap glass. It was indeed a. pretty, 
a very pretty face, though now the eyes were 
red w 7 ith weeping, and tears hung on the long 
dark lashes. She tried to smile at herself, 
but the smile w T as driven away by a fresh 
burst of tears. 

“It’s no use,” she sobbed, “I’ll never be 


158 


THE LILY OF 


as lovely as our Mary — never, never. Why 
she looks like an angel when she smiles, and 
even now, though she hardly ever smiles, she’s 
like one that you read about in a novel.” 
She leaned her elbows on the bureau, and 
looked again long and earnestly at herself. 
“My, I’ve a nice neck,” she said to herself, 
throwing her head back that she might get 
a better view of her slim throat, “and my eyes 
ain’t so bad .” She closed one with her finger, 
and looked at herself with the other. “Long 
lashes, too, grand, long, black ones, but, 
gracious, what ones Mary’s got! Then my 
nose turns up just a bit too much; it gives 
me a sassy appearance. 

“Oh, dear me, why should Brian fall in 
love with our Mary? She’s beautiful enough, 
to be sure, but she is too nice to be a miner’s 
wife. Most of the young fellows around here 
would prefer me as a wife ; and why shouldn’t 
they? Mary’s too waxy to be over a stove. 
Whenever I see her cooking, I just have to 
think that she ought to be reading or writing 
or knitting or doing something of that sort. 

“There’s that Tom Cavan, he’s just in love 
with me, he’s crazy about me, but I can’t 
abear him. He’s entirely too conceity, and 
thinks himself such a swell that he expects 
every girl to fire herself at his head. Just 


THE COAL FIELDS. 159 


because his hair curls a little at the ends, 
like a drake’s tail; and because he’s got a 
sickly ghost of a mustache, which he plucks 
so much that I wonder he’s got his lip left; 
and just because he has one of his crooked 
teeth plugged with gold, he thinks that the 
girls can’t resist him. Such a goose as he is 
— always smiling and winking and trying to 
be nice with me; bah, I can’t even look at 
him any more. What did he do the other 
night, but nearly throw his back out of joint 
in his rush to pick up my handkerchief when 
it dropped. I guess if we were married a 
month or two, and I fell over the stairs, he 
wouldn’t come to see if me neck was broke. 
That’s just the kind of a fellow I put Tom 
Cavan down for. 

“Dave Daily was just such a sweet-tongued 
chap when he was courting poor Sophy Caine, 
and taking her to all the dances. She 
believed all the stuff he told her. But 
she’s found to her sorrow that she put a 
lump of salt into her mouth instead of a 
lump of sugar; for now he guzzles her in 
the corner and gives her the boots every week 
or so. 

“And that horrible Pete Muffin’s almost 
as bad as Tom Cavan; he’s soft with conceit, 
too. No civilized being could ever go gander- 


160 


THE LILY OF 


dancing about a girl, like that moonstruck 
Pete does about me.” 

The reader may be led to suppose that 
Martha Breen had Grecian blood in her veins. 
Every young admirer was a barbarian with 
her save Brian Munley, but the reader must 
make no such erroneous supposition. 

“But Brian, ah, he’s not like that; a differ- 
ent sort of a man entirely, Brian is,” and a 
soft light filled her eyes. “Now, why couldn’t 
Brian fall in love with me, and Tom Cavan 
fall in love with somebody else, or even with 
Mary — no, not with her, no, no; she’s too 
good for him. Such a world! Oh, dear,” 
with a big sigh, “here’s Mary unhappy be- 
cause she can’t be a Sister; and Brian un- 
happy because he can’t have Mary for his 
wife, and me, poor little me, unhappy because 
Brian don’t love me.” 

Another “Oh, dear!” and a bigger sigh; 
then Martha, who cared but little for philos- 
ophy, gave up trying to find out why the 
course of true love never runs smooth, and 
went downstairs. 

She found Mary reading — a spiritual book, 
of course; she never read anything else. 

“You ought to know that book be heart, 
Mary; I see you reading it so often.” 

“I have a good portion of it in niy heart, 


THE COAL FIELDS. 161 


Mattie. It is a beautiful book. It is a pity 
that the Imitation is not read more. It holds 
consolation for every one, be his cross what 
it may. One sentence, Mattie dear, I love 
to ponder on : M an proposes , but God disposes ” 

Then the sisters fell to conversation; and 
Martha, as she listened to Mary’s beautiful 
language, couldn’t help thinking that Brian 
Munley had good taste, and she wished that 
she had studied her books more when she 
was at school. 

“For then maybe he would like me, if I 
could talk better grammar, and have such 
a nice way about me; men are taken up by 
such things.” she pondered in her foolish 
little heart. “Oh, if I only knewjas much 
about books as I do about cooking.” 

Poor Martha! 


CHAPTER XX. 


AT THE ELEVENTH IiOUR. 

A slender little creature, with short, bushy 
black hair, eyes that were great wells of black- 
ness, lips red as cherries, a sweet, Madonna- 
like face — that was Lalite Frazer. 

She smiled pleasantly at the nurses, show- 
ing a row of pearls that Helen of Troy might 
have been proud to claim for her own, and 
graciously bowed to the Sisters that she met 
on her way to the room assigned her. It was 
such a pretty one that the nurses called it the 
“fairy” room. It had been fitted up for 
the Sisters by a man w 7 hom they nursed back 
to health. He never could forget their kind- 
ness, and tried in this way to show his grati- 
tude. 

Miss Frazer came to the hospital on a 
Saturday. The following Saturday she was 
to undergo a surgical operation. She was 
given into Bridget Purcel’s charge. When 
Bridget brought her lunch on the day of her 
arrival, she was lounging in a wicker chair, 
buried in a deep reverie. Her hands were 
clasped behind her head, and her face w r ore 


THE COAL FIELDS. 163 


a look of mingled remorse and fear. She 
murmured a kindly greeting, as Bridget set 
down the tray. How pretty she looked 
as she ate the crisp toast and sipped her 
chocolate ! 

A book was lying on the table, one of those 
paper-bound novels, written in a flashy style 
by some of the modern-day authors. She 
caught Bridget’s eye resting on the colored 
title-page. 

“I suppose you don’t read novels, Miss 
Purcel?” she said, a smile flitting across her 
face. “Miss Purcel is your name, isn’t it? 
I think the Sister told me that Miss Purcel 
would be my nurse.” 

Bridget bowed in assent to the last ques- 
tion and replied: 

“I don’t have much time to read novels; 
we are kept very busy here, and when our 
‘outing-day’ comes, I assure you, we nurses 
at Mercy Hospital do not spend our moments 
poring over the pages of a novel.” 

“Perhaps,” her brows knit in a small frown, 
as if she were in pain, “it would have been 
better for me had I read fewer novels. I 
think,” she added, smiling brightly, “you 
and I shall be friends, Miss Purcel.” 

That afternoon Bridget had a few moments 
further chat with Miss Frazer and found her 
an excellent^conversationalist. , 


164 


THE LILY OF 


“You must take me to your chapel this 
evening, Bridget ,” she said. She no longer 
called her Miss Purcel. “Is it a pretty one ?” 

“Very; I am sure you will like it, Miss 
Frazer.” 

“Miss Frazer! Why not Lalite?” she que- 
ried, with an arch smile. “However, Bridget, 
she subjoined, “you know by this time, I dare 
say, that I am no Catholic.” 

Yes, Bridget knew that. She had per- 
sisted in calling a picture of St. Teresa which 
hung on the wall of her room, “that beautiful 
Virgin,” meaning, of course, the Mother of 
God; and though about to undergo a serious 
operation, she had not asked for a priest. 

That evening when Miss Frazer and Brid- 
get entered the chapel, it was only dimly 
lighted. She knelt while Bridget made a 
little act of obeisance to the patient Watcher of 
the Tabernacle. Bridget looked askance at 
her beautiful face as she knelt there, her slim 
hands folded, the faint light heightening her 
rich dark beauty. Bridget thought of proud, 
lovely pagan Fabiola, and in her secret heart 
wished that she might prove to be Miss 
Frazer’s St. Agnes. 

“Remain here a minute, Lalite, please,” 
she whispered, “until I turn on the light.” 

“Bridget,” — how soft her voice was now ! — 


THE CCfAL FIELDS. 165 

“I do not care to see the chapel this evening; 
you may show it to me in the morning.” 

She arose hastily and turned to leave the 
chapel. When the portieres had closed with 
a gentle rustle behind them, she said: 

“I am going to lie down now, Bridget. 
Good-night,’’ smiling; “bring me an egg for 
breakfast.” 

Next morning Miss Frazer was dressed in 
a pretty pink gown, cut low at the neck, dis- 
playing her round white pillar-like throat, at 
which a single jewel blazed. 

“Do you care to see our chapel this morn- 
ing?” Bridget said, as she chatted with Miss 
Frazer. “We shall have High Mass at nine 
o’clock. I dare say you have never attended 
Mass ?” 

“No; but I know what your Mass is like. 
One of our actors” — for the first time Bridget 
learned that Miss Frazer was an actress — 
“was a Catholic, and a very good Catholic. 
He explained to me something about your 
Mass. Bridget,” she confessed prettily, 
“I know very little of any religion. I believe 
that there is a God, and that there are Ten 
Commandments, but I do not belong to any 
sect. You can’t call me an infidel,” she 
laughed, “though in truth I am not what you 
may call a good Christian.” 


166 


THE LILY OF 

As Bridget left her, she said, “Come for 
me at nine o’clock; I’ll attend your service.” 

The nurse and her patient entered the 
chapel just as the priest ascended the altar 
steps. Miss Frazer genuflected; she was 
very polite. She seemed to be in profound 
thought, as she sat beside Bridget. The 
“Mass Book for non- Catholics,” which 
Bridget had given her, lay in her hand 
neglected and unopened. She knelt with 
reverence, or what looked like reverence, 
at the Consecration. 

“How solemn! how grand!” she said later 
in the day. “Bridget, you Catholics have a 
splendid service in your Mass. Oh, the 
melody of that Kyrie!” 

When Bridget entered the “fairy” room 
that afternoon, Miss Frazer was lying on her 
bed, her face bathed in tears. 

“You are not well?” said Bridget, as she 
brushed back the thick dark hair. 

“Oh, Bridget, how glad I am that you have 
come! I am so wretched.” She sat upright, 
looking like a beauitful wdld creature with 
her disordered hair and tear-wet eyes. She 
drew' Bridget down beside her. “Bridget, I 
never before met a woman I liked so well as 
you, or one w 7 ho won my affection in so short 
a time. How I w'ish I had such a sister! 


THE COAL FIELDS. 167 


Perhaps I should have been better if I had,” 
with a little sigh. “Oh, Bridget,” tears rolled 
down her cheeks, “mine has been a selfish, 
a sinful life, and now — now — the end is 
come!” 

“Lalite,” Bridget responded, trying to be 
cheerful, “you speak as if you were old, and 
had seen long years of crime. Why, you are 
scarcely out of your teens; and you speak of 
the end. What do you mean?” 

“I feel that I shall die under the knife, 
Bridget,” she sobbed. 

“I have known a number of patients who 
felt that way,” Bridget said, “yet they left 
the surgical table, and are alive to-day.” 

“But they were not in so feeble a state as 
I am; and oh, I have had dreams,” shudder- 
ing, “such terrible dreams! I am sure that 
at the first cut of the knife I shall die,” she 
persisted; “and, O Bridget, it is an awful 
thing to die when one has led such a life as 
mine. It is a fearful thought that I must 
face a God whom I have never honored. 
People say that He is merciful, but they also 
say that He is just. Bridget, Bridget, you 
Catholics believe in praying for one another; 
I ask you to pray for me.” 

“You must not pay any attention to your 
dreams, dear Lalite, they are the children of 


168 


THE LILY OF 


your disturbed mind. Perhaps, dear, you 
would like to see a prie — I mean a minister 
— a prie — ” 

She interrupted with, “No, no, Bridget; 
I want no one but you.” 

“May I send our chaplain to you?” Brid- 
get pleaded. 

“No,” she repeated; “I want no minister, 
no priest.” 

“Lalite, dear; please do let me bring 
Mother Eulalia to you. She can talk to 
you so much better than I can, and — ” 

She lifted her hand with a little gesture of 
angry impatience. “Bridget, I declare that 
I w r ant no one but you. If you bring a Sister 
to me, you will displease me.” 

Bridget drew the yielding head down on 
her bosom. How like a child the actress was 
with her big eyes and quivering mouth! 

“Bridget, mine has been a gay, but an 
empty life. I ran away from home over 
two years ago. I wanted to go on the stage 
and have my own way; my home was too 
quiet. I have one brother who is much older 
than I, a hard, stern brother, Bridget, who 
was never kind to me. He — ” she paused, 
her voice choked with tears. 

“But your mother, Lalite, didn’t she love 
you, and wasn’t she kind to you? And your 
father loved you?” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 169 

“Yes, both my parents loved me, and were 
too kind. Oh, I was so wilful, but I am 
sorry — sorry.” 

“Haven’t you seen any of your relatives 
since you left them? Haven’t you heard from 
your home?” 

“I succeeded on the stage from the night 
of my first appearance, Bridget; my voice 
and talent won recognition for me. I wrote 
home a year after my mad flight, and my 
brother answered my letter. I shall never 
forget his cruel words; they have blasted my 
life. He said that he never cared to see me 
again ; that my father was dead — dead of a 
broken heart. There was not one word 
about my dear mother in the letter.” 

Miss Frazer buried her face in her hands, 
and tears trickled through her fingers. 

“Of course, dear,” Bridget said gently, 
“you did wrong in running away from home, 
but your sin is not beyond forgiveness. You 
were young and giddy.” 

“I have not told you all, Bridget; my run- 
ning away, and becoming an actress was not 
all.” She repeated the words mechanically. 
“You can guess the rest of my story: a giddy 
young girl, gifted and beautiful, on the stage 
without a mother’s warning voice to guide 
her. Perhaps if I had known more about 


170 


THE LILY OF 


God then, if I had been a Catholic like you, 
I should not have sinned so grievously.” 

“Some Catholics sin often, and in grave 
matters,” Bridget answered, “but they repent, 
Lalite. You can do the same.” 

Miss Frazer was silent. 

The soft summer breeze came through the 
open window, — Bridget could feel it for 
years afterwards, — bringing with it the scent 
of the flowers in the garden below. It played 
with the dark curls that clustered about the 
actress’ ears and throat. Bridget could see 
the sky, with its flittering clouds. Her heart 
throbbed in pity for the bowed, sorrowful 
figure of poor Miss Frazer. What could she 
say to cheer her ? 

Miss Frazer was awake betimes on the 
morning of the operation. Great circles 
were beneath the dark eyes; there were lines 
of pain and weariness about the sweet mouth ; 
the face was drawn. She told Bridget that 
she had not slept at all during the night. 

She looked at her watch. The hand was on 
the stroke of eight. 

“In two hours, Bridget,” she said sadly, 
“I shall meet my doom.” 

The small fingers were clenched, and a 
shudder ran through her. 

“Your thoughts are too gloomy even for 


THE COAL FIELDS. 171 


ihis sad occasion, Lalite dear; I feel certain 
that you will not die.” 

“I wish I could feel so. Bridget, this is a 
hard, cruel old world, yet I am afraid to leave 
it. It must be a blessed thing for a world- 
weary soul, to say farewell to this vale of 
misery, a soul that has suffered patiently for 
her God, a soul that has sinned less heinously 
than I.” She paused, then went on: “Oh, 
I have suffered, suffered so much. My life 
has been a failure, my frail craft wrecked 
immediately after leaving the harbor; for I 
am still young. I wanted fame and fortune ; 
I found heartache. 

“I have loved, ah, loved so fondly,” she 
continued. “Roger Carroll, the man I loved 
whom I still love, was a Catholic. I might 
have been his wife, but — but — . He loved 
me, Bridget, as much as I loved him. He 
was all that was good and true and noble, not 
like the other men I knew; not like Norman 
Stroud, not like Wayne Carter.” 

Bridget started at the name. 

“Oftentimes my shallow, sinful heart re- 
proached me when I looked at his frank, 
boyish face — the dear face that is impressed 
upon my heart; he was so much better than 
I. We were lovers for one short month. Oh 
those happy, happy days! Then we parted, 
and the sun of my life set. 


172 


THE LILY OF 


“I knew Roger would never make me his 
wife unless I became a Catholic; but since 
the Catholic Church had such sons, why 
should I not become her daughter? When 
Roger Carroll joined our company, I had 
been on the stage over a year, and my life, 
as I have already told you, had not been what 
it should have been. Roger had heard 
nothing of my past, and I was happy that he 
had not. During the brief month he knew 
me, he so bound himself up in my heartstrings 
that he never left my thoughts night or day. 
My stay in Paradise was short; already a 
serpent was planning my ruin. 

“One of our actresses, Leah Stroud, a sister 
of Norman Stroud, once my lover, conceived 
a violent passion for Roger Carroll. She was 
a tall, majestic woman, a perfect blonde, far 
more beautiful than I; and I feared with a 
jealous fear, when she cast her eyes upon him, 
that she might steal Roger from me. Many 
a pang of jealousy I suffered when I viewed 
her wonderful beauty. Why could I not be 
so lovely to win my heart’s hero ? But Roger 
withstood all her wiles. He treated her as a 
friend, nothing more. 

“When Leah Stroud saw that I had Roger 
Carroll’s love, she came to me one day as I 
sat in my room at the hotel. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 173 


“ ‘Miss Frazer/ she said — she never called 
me Miss Frazer unless she was angry — ‘how 
can you conscientiously retain the love of 
such a man as Roger Carroll?’ 

“ ‘ Conscientiously!’ I echoed, my heart beat- 
ing rapidly. Did she know of my past? 
‘What do you mean, Leah?’ 

“‘You know what I mean, Miss Frazer,’ 
she said, with bitterness; ‘Roger Carroll 
knows absolutely nothing about you; if he did, 
he would scorn to breathe your name.’ 

“Ah, heaven, she knew all! 

“I arose, staggered to a couch, and fell upon 
it with a moan. Already I saw the fruit of 
happiness torn from my lips. Leah Stroud’s 
severe face softened as she gazed upon me. 

“ ‘I will not betray you, Lalite,’ she said, 
not unkindly, ‘if you give Roger Carroll up.’ 

“Mad with rage and disappointed love, 
I leaped at her; I could have torn her limb 
from limb. 

“‘I will never give him up!’ I shrieked, 
regardless of what I said, regardless of all 
consequences. 

“With a cold sneering smile, that was more 
cruel than a blow, she left me. An hour 
later, as I paced the floor, like a wounded 
tigress, Roger Carroll came to my room. 
With an exclamation'of welcome, I turned to 


174 


THE LILY OF 


greet him, and beheld the mockingly trium- 
phant face of Leah Stroud behind him. A 
glance at his countenance told me that the 
worst had come. The door closed. 

“‘Lalite,’ he caught my poor, fluttering 
hands in his strong grasp — oh, I dared not 
meet his honest eyes! — ‘tell this woman she 
lies/ 

“‘She cannot,’ hissed my arch-enemy. 

“‘Oh, God, Roger!’ burst from my lips, 
‘my punishment is greater than I can bear. 
Forgive me; forget the past; I have begun 
anew.’ 

“He dropped my hands, as if they were 
hot coals; his face turned ashen; and with 
a groan that came straight from his heart, he 
left me, left me, never to smile on me again. 

“With a bitter cry, I fell senseless to the 
floor. Then came a dreary spell of sickness; 
I was kept to my bed for nearly a month. 
I never saw Roger Carroll again. I heard 
that he went far away. Leah Stroud, in 
destroying my hopes of becoming his wife, 
ruined her own. 

“Oh, Bridget, I shall never forget the hours 
that Roger and I spent together, the religious 
instructions he loved to whisper into my will- 
ing ears. See,” she drew a small rosary from 
her bosom, “this he gave me only the night 
before we parted.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 175 


She pressed a kiss upon the shining beads, 
and a great pearly tear rolled down her color- 
less cheek. 

“Dear, I need not tell you of my life after 
he left me; it is too sad a story. Oh, had I 
only met Roger Carroll before I fled from my 
home, I should not have fallen so low; I 
should have been a good woman. But I 
dare say all wicked women would have been 
different, had they met a good man and loved 
him, while they were what they should be.” 

Shortly before Miss Frazer was taken to 
the surgical room, she gave Bridget her real 
name — Charlotte Burroughs. 

“Bridget,” she whispered, clinging to her, 
“you must not let my brother Robert know 
anything about me until I am dead.” 

Bridget did not inform her that her brother 
had been, and perhaps still was, in prison for 
forgery. She pressed a lingering kiss on the 
actress’ lips, another, then she was obliged 
to leave her. 

As Bridget stood like one in a dream at the 
door of the operating-room after poor Lalite 
had been received into it, Sister Antoninus’ 
soft voice said: “Please take a lunch to the 
patient in Room 5. I will remain here, 
Bridget; if the doctors need anything, I will 
get it for them.” 


176 


THE LILY OF 


In passing the chapel, Bridget hastily 
threw aside the portieres and fell on her knees 
in the presence of the Redeemer of mankind. 
After she had prayed, her heart felt lighter; 
she had done all she could for her poor friend. 

For the next hour Bridget was so engaged 
with various duties that she had no time to 
inquire about Charlotte. 

Mother Eulalia came hurriedly to her side. 
“Bridget,” she said, “go to Room 7 at once. 
That new patient, Miss Frazer, has just been 
taken from the operating- table. She is call- 
ing for you; she wants you to attend her. 
Sister Antoninus can do nothing with her. 
I fear the poor girl has but a few hours to 
live.” 

With tears streaming down her cheeks, 
Bridget flew to Charlotte’s side. 

“Stay, Sister Antoninus,” she said, laying 
a detaining hand upon the nun’s arm. 

“No, I want only you,” said Charlotte, 
peevishly, her eyes opening — “only you, 
Bridget, no one but you.” 

“Pray for her,” whispered Bridget to 
Sister Antoninus, as she left the room. 

Bridget saw that Charlotte’s hours were 
numbered. All the color had gone from her 
face, her lips were almost white. 

“Bridget. lit is awful to die. Oh. if I could 


THE COAL FIELDS. 177 


only undo the past ! I meant to become good 
when I got old, but the Almighty Being whom 
I neglected, has cut me off short. Bridget, 
I look now to you; is there any hope for me 
in eternity? After my miserable life in this 
world, what awaits me in the next?” 

“Christ came to save sinners, dear,” Brid- 
get murmured, supporting the drooping head 
with her arm. “Our sins are as a little grain 
of sand beside the mountain of God’s mercy.” 

A sudden thought struck Bridget. 

“Lalite,” — she still called her by the name 
under which she first knew her, — “have 
you ever been baptized?” She asked it 
eagerly, anxiously. 

“No, Bridget; I belong to no sect.” 

“Thank God, oh, thank God! — Lalite, 
you believe in God? that Christ is the re- 
deemer of the world?” 

“Yes, Bridget,” — her voice was growing 
fainter. 

God’s all-powerful grace must have been 
pouring into that poor worn heart. Perhaps 
in the peace of some convent-cell, a saintly 
recluse was sending her petitions to the throne 
of God for the soul that was about to leave 
the world. Perhaps Roger Carroll was pray- 
ing for the unfortunate girl he had loved. 

“Bridget, all Roger Carroll’s teaching 


178 


THE LILY OF 


comes over my heart, like an overwhelming 
flood. Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Ho y 
Ghost, look down with pity upon me. I 
want to die a Christian and a Catholic. Will 
this belief save me, Bridget ?” 

Her eyes opened with a weary stare, her 
voice seemed far away. 

“Lalite, baptism will save you, will make 
you a saint!” 

Her eyes were closing. Bridget seized a 
glass of water that stood on the table, and 
poured it over her forehead. Charlotte 
joined her hands, as Bridget murmured the 
solemn words of baptism. 

“Lalite, I have baptized you Mary in honor 
of our Blessed Mother. May she lead you 
to the feet of her divine Son!” 

Charlotte’s eyes opened, and into them 
came a beautiful light such as Bridget never 
before saw in the eyes of a mortal. Those 
eyes gazed into hers with a look of gratitude 
that she never forgot. They then closed to 
open in this world no more. Charlotte’s lips 
parted, and a single word came from them. 
Bridget bent down her ear, and heard soft as 
the sigh of a zephyr, — “Mercy!” 

She fell on her knees and with a fervent 
prayer pressed her face into the bed clothes 
and wept tears of joy. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


JUDGE NOT. 

He was a tall, handsome man, and Mrs. 
Dickson leaned affectionately on his arm, as 
they came down the hospital corridor towards 
Bridget. 

“You see, dear Miss Purcel,” she said, “I 
am not left entirely destitute by my husband’s 
death. This is my brother, Roger Carroll.” 
Bridget bowed. “He and I parted on my 
wedding day. We had quarreled about my 
husband, and I, in anger, said that Roger 
should never hear from me again until James 
was a Christian.” 

“And she kept her word,” said the tall, 
handsome man. “Now we shall spend the 
rest of our lives together.” 

“He is not married,” said Mrs. Dickson, 
“so I shall have to be wife as well as sister.” 

A little shade came over Roger Carroll’s 
smooth face. Bridget noticed it and knew. 
She was glad that he had not forgotten. 

Shortly after when Mrs. Dickson was 
chatting with Mother Eulalia and Sister 
Antoninus, Bridget led Roger Carroll to the 
“fairy” room and stopped at the^door. 


180 


THE LILY OF 


“You knew Lalite Frazer ?” she asked. 
He bowed. “She is dead,” said Bridget. 
“She died a Catholic — was baptized a minute 
before her death.” 

“Thank God!” It was more a groan than 
a prayer as it came from his lips. 

Bridget opened the door, and he glanced 
in. A beautiful dead face met his eyes. He 
entered. Bridget closed the door, and left 
him alone, alone with the weary heart that 
was at rest forever. 

That evening Bridget was going along the 
corridor of the hospital. Suddenly she heard 
a voice cry aloud in pain, a voice that sent 
the blood rushing about her heart. She 
hastily opened the door, and saw one of the 
doctors bending over a delicate woman on 
the bed, whose golden hair fell in waves 
across the pillow. Sister Antoninus who 
stood near weeping quietly, came close to 
Bridget. 

“She is stabbed in the bosom, and will die, 
so young, so beautiful. She has asked for 
the priest.” 

The sufferer saw Bridget. “Great merci- 
ful God! Is my poor brain mocking me? 
Is it you, Biddy, O Biddy?” 

Then the sisters’ heads were together, the 
dark hair of one mingling with the other’s 


THE COAL FIELDS. 181 


bright tresses; and Belle’s weary head was 
pillowed on Bridget’s bosom. 

Bridget sat by the bedside, and gazed at the 
beautiful face on the pillow. The priest had 
performed his sacred office; and Bridget was 
happy that he had remained so long with the 
dying one. 

“ Biddy dear, I have not been so wicked 
after all. I tell you this for your consolation. 
I have been more weak than wicked. My 
marriage was a mistake, my mad love a 
weakness. My lover never knew I was a wife. 
To him I was Lora Davenport, a name I 
got from a novel. Perhaps, I should have 
been more of a Christian, had I read fewer 
novels. I met him several times; I dallied 
with temptation. When I left you at Mine 
Run, there were in my brain plans at which 
I now shudder, plans which were never car- 
ried out, dear; your prayers saved me. 

“Last night I decided to go to confession 
as soon as possible, and I went this evening. 
After I had said part of my penance — oh, 
there was much of it, dear; it was a long time 
since my last confession — I left the church 
very happy. I had not walked a yard from 
the church when I came face to face with 
Robert Burroughs, my husband; a chill ran 
over me, I loathed him, but God’s grace 


182 


THE LILY OF 


triumphed. I threw my arms about his neck 
and forced myself to kiss him. O Bridget, 
can you pity me! God knows — only God 
can know, how I felt, as I looked through 
the long vista of years to come, when I should 
be chained to this man. But what mattered 
it? My lover was dead. 

“My husband and I walked on into the 
park. It had grown rather dark, for I had 
been in the church a long time. 

“‘I have escaped from prison,’ he said; 
T must be careful. I have work to do be- 
fore those hounds of the law catch me.’ 

“‘Let us fly together,’ I said. 

“There was a grove near a dark, gloomy 
place. 

“ ‘ Come in here,’ he breathed in my ear. 

“I thought he saw an officer coming, and 
I hurriedly obeyed. In an instant he had 
gripped my throat and forced me to my knees. 

“ ‘Strumpet,’ he hissed, ‘false-hearted, false- 
tongued! You kissed me with the lips that 
are warm with another man’s kisses. My 
mother followed you, and told me of your 
love affair. You covered your tracks well, 
but not so well as to deceive her. Go down 
to hell, where there are others like you; this 
world is not for such as you.’ 

“He buried a knife in my bosom. My 


THE COAL FIELDS. 183 

blood wet his hands, as I fell prostrate on the 
grass. He kissed me fiercely, and I felt his 
burning tears dew my face. Thinking I was 
dead, he disappeared. I lay there a long 
time. I knew I was going to die — and O 
Bridget, believe poor, sinful me, I wanted to 
receive for the last time our Lord in His 
Blessed Sacrament. You see all my old 
Catholic teaching had not departed from me. 
Atjength a girl came near, and I called to her. 
The^priest will say the rest of my penance for 
me; you need not worry, dear. Bury me 
secretly, anywhere.’’ 

“You must be buried at Mine Run.” 

“Not there, Bridget, oh, not there. Mam 
must not know of my death.” 

“She is with pap, Belle, and you must be 
laid there too. O darling, you want to be 
near him, I know you do.” 

“Did mam forgive me, Bridget?” 

“Yes, yes, from her heart.” 

“Then bury me there, bury me there, 
where I can be with dear old pap. Take this 
money for Masses. Perhaps you need it, 
dear, but I am selfish still, selfish as ever, 
and I need the Masses. Bridget, there is 
a fearful change coming over me. Oh, I 
know what it is! Let me lay my head on 
your breast, as in the old days, but first open 


184 


THE LILY OF 


the window, and let the air blow upon me; 
the room is stifling.” 

Bridget threw up the window, and the 
bright moon veiled herself behind a cloud. 
The air was balmy, and far off somewhere 
there was music. She took the graceful 
head on her bosom, and Belle’s arms stole 
round her neck. The dying woman nestled 
to her like a child. 

“O Biddy, my dear innocent, white-souled 
Biddy, if I had never left this pure breast! 
O Biddy!” Her little hands slipped from 
Bridget’s neck and were groping about. 
“Biddy, have you left me? O Biddy, where 
are you?” 

“Here love, here.” 

“But I cannot see you. O Biddy, I am 
blind.” 

Bridget was blind too, blind with scalding 
tears. 

“Biddy!” Bridget took the white hands, 
poor quivering little doves in hers — took 
them to her bosom, as she had done the night 
before Belle left home. “O Biddy, my 
hands are cold.” 

And they were. 

******* 

The warm rays of the sun were softly 
touching the tombstones and well-kept 


THE COAL FIELDS. 185 


mounds in St. Joseph’s Cemetery. The gate 
of the churchyard was open. Many were 
kneeling beside the tombs of loved ones gone 
before. 

Old men, stooped with the weight of years, 
were on their knees beside the graves thickly 
grown with long grasses ; women, some young 
and fair, others faded and bent, had sunk 
down beside other mounds, and were sob- 
bing with the grief of mothers or wives; girls, 
with lovely fresh faces and long plaits, knelt 
near storm-beaten tombstones, their hands 
folded in prayer. 

Near a little green mound, with a pretty 
vine running round about it, stood a trio not 
unknown to the reader — Mr. and Mrs. 
Barney Green and their son John. The three 
were well-dressed and contented-looking. 
The husband was gazing fondly at his wife, 
as she wiped her eyes with her cambric hand- 
kerchief. 

“Till,” he said, “Fred’s death made a 
man of his father. God was severe with me 
when He tuk Fred from me, but He knows 
best. He is a better Father to me boy than 
ever I was.” 

Mrs. Green dried her eyes and turned to 
her husband with her wonted smile. 

“Barney, God’s good even when He 


186 


T,HE L I LjY OF 


punishes; when He uses the rod, He doesn’t 
forgit how weak we are. He tuk Fred from 
us, but He left John to give us happiness, 
when He might a taken both our boys in 
punishment of our sins. And we can’t 
complain. Look how them Purcels were 
afflicted. Oh, it went through me to-day 
when I saw poor Bridget Purcel. Poor little 
Belle, pretty little thing! O Barney, let us 
go home. This funeral has upsot me — poor 
Belle Purcel’s! God rest her soul! Bridget 
is up there be the grave yet. O come!” 

Never was it harder to leave Mine Run. 
Bridget sat in the station and wept till the 
train came. Her tears were still flowing 
when she boarded it, and she was glad to sink 
into a seat and indulge her grief. All she 
loved was at Mine Run. In the cemetery 
the new mound wherein she seemed to have 
buried her heart. Oh, the loneliness! yet 
it was sweet to think that the world could 
harm Belle no more. 

And Hugh Nolan, it was hard to go so far 
away from him, yet it was almost as hard to 
be near him; he was so cold. Did he love 
some one else? And if not would he ever 
love her? 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE LILY AND THE VIOLET. 

The spring glided into summer and au- 
tumn came. The picnics were becoming 
less frequent, the euchre parties and indoor 
dances more in vogue. Martha Breen was the 
belle of every gathering at Montgomery; but 
her enjoyment of those amusements would 
have been much augmented, had Brian Mun- 
ley attended more of them; as it was she 
enjoyed herself at every gathering, be it dance 
or euchre. 

“That Mattie Breen is a perfect little clip; 
she’s always laughing and cutting up,” re- 
marked one of the stars of lesser magnitude, 
looking admiringly and enviously at Martha. 

They were at a dance; and Martha was 
surrounded by admirers, but though her 
laugh rang out merriest, her eyes were roving 
about for Brian, who was absent. 

Breen and his wife realized that Brian 
Munley loved Mary, and they pitied him and 
Martha. Why could he not love the younger 
sister, who loved him, and was a lovable 
woman ! 


188 


THE LILY OF 


Brian never spoke of his love for Mary; 
he knew that to speak of it would be useless. 
He did not know, stupid man that he was, 
that he had Martha’s heart in his keeping; 
but how could he notice the violet when his 
eyes were fastened on the lily? 

October, a blustry, sleety month it was. 
Old winter had sent a severe herald before 
him. The trees stood stark and naked, look- 
ing gaunt and haggard without their rustling 
green robes. As the piercing wind blew un- 
pityingly on them, they flung their uncovered 
arms about in a vain endeavor to warm 
their chilled blood. The little gardens were 
empty of flowers; the green plots were dry 
and seared, for winter’s frost had burned 
with its baleful breath all life from the tender 
shrinking blades. The birds that sang so 
sweetly were gone; gone were the bees and 
butterflies. The little rippling brooks and 
tinkling rills that had escaped the beauty- 
destroying coal bank, were hidden beneath 
a thick sheet of ice, as was the once limpid 
pond. All nature about Montgomery seemed 
dead, and its withered body waited for its 
white shroud that was so long a-coming. 

It was then that the smallpox broke out 
at Montgomery, and in a brief time claimed 
for its own several of the little town’s inhabi- 


THE COAL FIELDS. 189 


tants. A pcsthouse was hurriedly erected 
about a mile from the town at the foot of one of 
the mountains, and thither the unfortunate 
victims were borne. It was a lonely place; 
behind the poor crazy pesthouse were the 
thick- wooded mountains, before it stretched 
a dense forest. 

Then the attending physician cried for a 
nurse — great was the need of one — but 
could not secure what was so necessary. 

Mary Breen saw her work, and just as 
joyfully as she had obeyed the call to the con- 
vent, did she obey her summons to the pest- 
house. She prepared to go, despite the vehe- 
ment protestations and prayers of her parents, 
her sister and Brian Munley. 

“She will never return to us alive,” be- 
moaned Mrs. Breen; “she’ll slave herself 
to death there. O Mary, listen to the mother 
that bore you; don’t go, dear; it will kill me.” 

“I must, mam; God wants me there. 
Some one must take care of the sufferers, and 
I am able to do so. My experience in hos- 
pital work will stand me in good stead ; and 
God will bring me back again.” 

These were her farewell words. She left 
home with the sobs of her mother and Martha 
resounding in her ears. Brian Munley caught 
one glance at her beautiful face, as she sat 


190 


THE LILY OF 


in the red wagon, and was driven to the pest- 
house. 

During the long months that the epidem- 
ic lasted, Mary Breen did not forsake her 
perilous post at the pesthouse. Those that 
left it told of her fortitude, her sweet patience, 
her womanly tenderness with the afflicted 
ones. They told how she tearfully closed, 
like a pitying angel, the eyes of those that 
died. 

And Mary was happy; she had found her 
work. She was not afraid of the dreadful 
disease. She lived for others, not for herself. 
If she could save one life by laying down her 
own, she would do so; but she had hitherto 
preserved almost a hundred lives, and had 
not suffered from the disease. 

Yet the distress of mind, the vigils, the 
onerous duties were telling on her, though she 
would not admit the fact; and it was well 
that the infectious disease ceased when it did, 
else Mary Breen would have fallen among 
those for whom she toiled. Only a few, 
comparatively speaking, lost their lives; and 
she had struggled in vain to save them. The 
last patient cured, she left the pesthouse a 
heroine. Thinner and older-looking, almost 
waxen in her pallor, she came forth; but she 
was still “the beautful Mary Breen.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 191 


During Mary’s absence, a change had come 
over Brian Munley. He knew that he could 
never win the love of such a woman. Besides 
he had discovered that her sister loved him; 
so he did what he thought best. He tried to 
uproot his affection for Mary from his heart, 
and to become fond of Martha. He succeeded 
well while Mary was absent, but on her re- 
turn the old love came back stronger than 
ever; came back on him like a flood that swept 
away every resolution, every endeavor, to 
love Martha. While Mary lived, Martha 
could hope in vain for Brian’s love. And 
Martha wept, wept like Byblis in her sorrow. 

Immediately after Mary had left the pest- 
house, she fell ill with nervous prostration. 
She was a week sick. She never complained. 
She had her rosary very often in her hand, 
and her prayer-book was not far from her 
side. Martha was her constant attendant, 
and Brian Munley visited her every evening, 
with the privilege of an old friend, he said. 

One morning when Martha was absent, 
Mrs. Breen told Mary that Martha loved 
Brian Munley, whereas he loved her. 

“Impossible!” ejaculated the girl in genuine 
surprise. “Ah, if my mind had not been so 
wrapped in my own affairs, I might have seen 
this. Poor Mattie, poor Brian!” 


192 


THE LILY OF 


She began to think, and her brows knit 
slightly. The scales were gone from her eyes ; 
what she could not understand in Brian’s 
conduct before, what she did not even try 
to understand, was now very clear to her. 
How blind she had been! How cruelly, how 
selfishly blind ! 

“I will — yes — ” but Mary realized that 
she was thinking out loud, so she broke off 
abruptly. 

It snowed all morning, the snow is knee- 
deep. There has been no sun. Night is 
coming on, and the wind is rising higher and 
higher. The moon is full, and there is scarce- 
ly a trace of a cloud in the sky; the stars look 
down with a steely stare. White, all white; 
white, the light of the moon and stars; white 
the mountains, the nude black figures of the 
trees heightening the whiteness; white, the 
huge culm-and-rock banks that usually stand 
like great black Cyclopean giants; white, the 
lofty roofs of the coal-breakers and housetops ; 
white the roads, white the gardens ; everything 
white with snow. 

The wind rattles the loose old window- 
sashes in the Breen home, till you wonder 
that sprigs and putty can hold in the panes 
that seem so eager to hurl themselves out. 
The blast shrieks about the eaves and in the 
chimney. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 193 


Mary Breen has been very weak for two 
days, and she is weaker to-night. Despite 
the snow, Brian Munley has come this even- 
ing. When he and Mrs. Breen enter the 
sick-room, Martha is sitting weeping beside 
Mary. Both girls give him a look of welcome. 
How beautiful, but unearthly-looking is Mary! 
and how rosy and pretty and winsome is 
Martha ! 

“Brian,” Mary speaks, “how good of you 
to come! I feared that the cold might have 
kept you away, it is such a bitter, frosty night. 
I have told Martha that I am dying, and now 
I must say a few words to you. — (Be patient, 
just a minute, mam dear, then I’ll speak with 
you.) — You have loved me, Brian.” He 
boldly takes her diaphanous hand, and pres- 
ses it softly in his rough palm; he is glad that 
she knows of his love. “Brian, when I am 
gone — and it will not be long before I go — 
you will love again; and I want you to love. 
How sad that you should love poor me, for 
though I am not a nun in garb, I am a nun at 
heart. Yet, Brian, you are a man that any 
woman could love.” 

When the next evening came, Mary Breen’s 
eyes were closed, and her face was sweet to 
look upon in its calm sleep. She had found 
her work, had faithfully performed it; and 


194 


THE LILY OF 


then, weary and heartsore, had fallen asleep 
in the Lord. 

The nuns heard of her peaceful end, and 
they prayed for her in the chapel she had loved 
“God had special designs in Sister Isabella’s 
regard,” said Mother Eulalia. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


AT DEATH’S DOOR. 

The Sisters and other nurses were glad of 
Bridget’s return to the hospital, for she light- 
ened their labor considerably, and she was 
so pleasant that no one ever saw her frown. 

Sister Antoninus had to undergo an opera- 
tion, and her duties fell to the lot of Bridget. 
There was an insane asylum adjoining the 
hospital, and one of Bridget’s new duties was 
to carry meals to the inmates. Many a tear 
she shed that day as she went her rounds. 
Bridget had more pity for the poor creatures 
than fear of them. 

She was just taking a lunch to the last 
patient, when she met Mother Eulalia. 

“What sort of a patient is in this room?” 
she asked. “Man or woman?” 

“A man. His relatives brought him here 
some time ago. He is continually talking 
about a woman; I dare say, his wife.” 

Bridget entered the room and set down the 
lunch, then turned to look at the occupant. 
A little cry of surprise and horror broke from 
her lips, when she saw the pale, ghastly face, 


196 


THE LILY OF 


the hollow cheeks and great burning eyes of 
Robert Burroughs, her sister’s husband. 
Those eyes! She now understood the look 
she had noticed in them years ago. Perhaps 
he had been partly insane all his lifetime, and 
perhaps that was the cause of poor Belle’s 
hard life with him. Perhaps his misfortunes 
and his love of her had driven him completely 
insane. 

He and Bridget stared at each other for 
some time; then he passed his hand across 
his brow in a confused way. He approached 
her, then drew back. A gust of air blew the 
door shut ; the knob was on the outside, there 
being none on the inside ; and Bridget realized, 
with a thrill of horror, that she was shut alone 
with a maniac — her sister’s murderer. 

“Is it she, or is it not?” he asked aloud, in 
a dull monotone. “I have thought her here 
much of late, but I have always been mistaken. 
Is it you in the flesh, Belle, or is it your spirit ?” 

Bridget shuddered more, as she perceived 
that he confounded her with her sister. Her 
fear deepened when she saw his fingers work- 
ing — just as they had worked that day at 
Mine Run when he struck Belle to the floor. 
The suspense was too great. She beat on 
the door with her hands and screamed twice. 
Then he had seized her in his sinewy arms 


THE COAL FIELDS. 197 


and was dragging her to the centre of the 
room. She tried to cry out again, but he 
clapped his hand on her mouth. 

“You are alive; your voice has told me 
that,” he said; “but youshalldie, die as I died 
long ago. I am here detained in this hell, 
because I loved you better than my soul.” 

His strong fingers closed on her throat. 
The barred windows, the walls, the bed, were 
swimming in a sea of blood before her eyes; 
the floor and ceiling came together, but for- 
ever were those awful eyes staring into hers. 
She heard a crash that seemed away off in 
another world, and that was all. 

Mother Eulalia had heard Bridget’s scream 
and she called two of the doctors at once. 

They threw open the door just in time to 
find her unconscious in the madman’s hands. 

“You may take her out now,” he said, 
“she is dead, and I need be jealous no more. 
No other man will ever love her, nor she him.” 

Bridget quickly revived, and was not much 
the worse for the encounter. 

“That’s what it is to be so pretty, Bridget,” 
twitted Katie Finley, who was now a nurse 
at the hospital. “I have gone into his room 
a dozen times, and he never paid any atten- 
tion to me ; yet as soon as you trip in, he thinks 
you are his lovely wife of whom he talks so 


198 THE LILY OF 

much, and proceeds to choke you. But,” 
with a shudder, “it really was an awful ex- 
perience, and one not to be forgotten. My 
nerves would be unstrung for life if ever I 
got into his clutches. 

“My nerves aren’t of the best anyway,” 
she continued, “and I had such a shock to-day. 
Two men are dead in my ward. Each shot 
the other in some den of vice in the city. 
The one, Norman Stroud, died of his wound ; 
the other, Wayne Carter, we might have saved, 
but his system was poisoned with alcohol. 

“But I’ll change the subject. You don’t 
seem quite like yourself, Bridget. Your ex- 
perience with that insane patient has not yet 
lost its effect. 

“I’m going to be married. To whom? 
Why, to Albert Brady, of course. He and 
I were beaus in the long ago, but he drank, 
and I would have nothing to do with him, 
though my heart almost broke. Dear Sister 
Isabella was his niece, and she reformed him. 
He got into that trouble, you remember, 
with his former employer, Norton Renshaw. 
Mr. Renshaw said hard things to Albert, 
who was in his cups at the time, and Albert 
gave him a blow that nearly ended his life. 
But Albert has left his crooked ways, and at 
last, dear, he and I shall be happy.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


A COAL REGION PROPOSAL. 

It was a chilly evening. The roads were 
frozen hard and lumpy, and were unpleasant 
to walk upon. Martha Breen drew her muffler 
about her throat. She was not alone; a tall, 
noble-looking young man walked beside her. 
They were returning from the close of the 
Forty Hours’ Devotion. Martha was almost 
the last to leave the church, and Brian Munley 
had waited in the vestibule till he saw her 
genuflect in the aisle. He was an honest, 
simple fellow, was Brian, and he has long 
since grown to love Martha, yet somehow he 
could never broach the subject of matrimony 
to her. She seemed more softened to-night, 
and never was she dearer to him. He would 
speak. 

“Mattie, I guess you have been down- 
hearted since the death of your sister Mary.” 

“Yes, Brian. Home without her ain’t 
like it was,” she replied sadly. 

“You will not alwavs feel it so bad, Mattie; 
in time, the sorrow will wear off some. Per- 
haps, when another love comes, then — ” 


200 


THE LILY OF 


His voice died off very faintly. Martha 
was silent. He waited for her to speak, then 
recommenced himself. 

“The sermon to-night was fine, wasn’t it, 
Mattie?” 

“Yes; I enjoyed it; sich a good sermon.” 
k “On the marriage state and its different 
duties. It set me thinking, Mattie, and 
thoughts came to me, thoughts of you.” 

He was laboring in the quicksands of em- 
barrassment, and Martha generously threw 
out a plank to him. 

“Of me, Brian, how kind! What were 
they ?” 

Her voice was encouraging; he screwed 
his courage to the sticking place. 

t “I thought of you and me in that marriage 
state, keeping the duties together; you help- 
ing me, and me helping you. Mattie, you 
know what I mean.” 

He clasped her little hand in his rough 
palm, his thick fingers closed over hers, he 
bent closer to her and stopped for an answer. 

“Know what you mean, Brian dear? I — 

I—” 

Martha was very much of a woman after 
all. Long years she had waited and longed 
and prayed for this moment, yet when it 
came, the happiness robbed her of her usual 
flow of speech. 


THE COAL FIELDS. 201 


His arm stole around her waist and draw- 
ing her very close, he whispered boldly in her 
ear. None but Brian heard the whispered 
answer. He looked radiantly happy, as there 
in the middle of the road, she held up her 
face for his first kiss. 

“I knew, Mattie, you wouldn’t refuse me, 
but when may the day be?” 

“Whenever you say, Brian. It won’t take 
me many days to get the few clothes I shall 
need.” 

She was feverish with impatience for the 
wedding day, and so was he. Down the 
road they went, arm in arm, their hearts sing- 
ing the sweet old song that will never die 
while the world lasts. Down the road, she 
happy in his protection, he happy in her de- 
pendence — just as, side by side, they passed 
down life’s road to the end. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


BACK TO THE COAL REGIONS. 

It was a cold, blustry January day. Rain 
and sleet and snow and wind joined hands to 
make life unbearable to pedestrians. The 
pavements were treacherous, the steps of 
houses and offices and trolley cars were trea- 
cherous. Bones were broken that day, noses 
and toes and ears and faces were frost-bitten, 
heads suffered by coming in abrupt contact 
with the sidewalks. Women veiled them- 
selves, but vainly; their noses would redden, 
and their cheeks and lips chap. Even the 
beards and mustaches of the men failed to 
save the lips of their owners from the biting 
cold. 

In her cosy room in the hospital sat Bridget 
Purcel, with a newspaper and a badly- written 
letter on her knees. There were traces of 
fresh tears about her cheeks and eyes. 

“Poor Jack Hayes!’’ she murmured aloud. 
“After all, there was much good in him. 
How he loved her, my poor Belle!” 

Bridget had seen him at Belle’s funeral, a 
sad-eyed, old-young man; debility brought 


THE COAL FIELDS. 203 

on by dissipation. After the funeral, she had 
seen him stupified with drink on the steps of 
a tavern. 

Jack Hayes and her brother Andy had never 
been friends, had in fact been open enemies. 
An accident occurred at the mines where the 
two foes were employed. All hope of escape 
for Andy had been given up, when Jack went 
to his rescue, saved him and lost his own 
life. 

“I can’t act no hypercrite, ,, said Jack 
bluntly, when crushed, and mangled he was 
taken home in the ambulance with Andy. 
“Don’t think I saved you for all the love I 
beared you. You’re her brother, and that 
is why I’m like I am now.” 

Jack’s old mother had no small consola- 
tion; her wayward son, the black sheep of 
the family, received the administrations of a 
priest before God ended his life, and he died 
sincerely sorry for all his past excesses. The 
badly written letter was from Andy. He 
gave in his crude way an account of the acci- 
dent. 

In the paper there was one item that at- 
tracted Bridget. Hugh Nolan was partner 
to a well-known business man of a large town 
some seven miles from Mine Run and was 
very successful. Bridget sighed. Very likely 


204 


THE LILY OF 


he would soon marry, now that he was so well 
on the road to fortune. Katie Finley tapped 
at the door and stuck in her head. 

“Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “You 
can’t guess who has just come. Dear old 
Mrs. Nolan and her son Hugh, all the way 
from Mine Run.” 

“On a visit?” asked Bridget, starting to 
her feet. 

“No, she has to undergo an operation for 
a tumor. But come down; she wants to see 
you.” 

Bridget gave a quick glance at her mirror 
before she left the room. Her heart beat very 
fast when she opened the door of Mrs. 
Nolan’s apartment, and met Hugh Nolan’s 
big blue eyes. 

“Arrah, God be praised!” cried the old 
woman, springing into Bridget’s arms. “You 
ain’t a bit diff’rent then you were when you 
first come down here. The city don’t change 
you like it does many of the others.” 

Bridget gave Hugh her hand. He looked 
very handsome that day; she thought she 
had never seen him look handsomer. The 
operation seemed to worry Mrs. Nolan, 
though Hugh assured her that it would be 
all right, for the doctors had told him so. 

“Oh, murder!” said she to Bridget next 


THE COAL FIELDS. 205 


morning. “What would I do if I died and 
left Hughie behind me, and him with no wife 
at all!” 

“But you won't die,” replied the em- 
barrassed girl. 

Hugh was out walking in the park. He 
passed along by a grove in which there was 
now not a leaf, and where the spotless snow 
lay deep. He never thought of the tragedy 
that had been enacted there. The snow 
covered the spot where a woman’s blood had 
nourished the grass. His thoughts were of 
Bridget. 

“So she is not married yet! Perhaps I 
may hope. I thought she would marry 
wealth; I am sure she might have done so. 
Perhaps — ” 

He turned back to the hospital, for the day 
was very cold. He found Bridget with his 
mother. 

The operation was quite successful; and 
the day soon came when Hugh and his mother 
were to return to Mine Run. 

“But I know I won’t live much longer any- 
how,” said Mrs. Nolan to Bridget. “Since 
the knife didn’t fix me, old age will mighty 
quick. But I’m satisfied, for Hugh will soon 
be married; I’ll see to that.” 

Bridget turned quickly to the window. 


206 


THE LILY OF 


Her heart pained her. She thought that now 
at last she understood. Hugh was engaged, 
and his mother wanted him to marry at an 
earlier date. It was of no use for her to try 
to stem that torrent of tears; it would come 
forth. Old Mrs. Nolan winked wickedly at 
Hugh. 

“What ails you, child?” she asked kindly. 

“O Mrs. Nolan, if I could only go back 
with you to Mine Run. I am so lonely, so 
lonely; I was never so lonely before.” 

Then Mrs. Nolan, strange to relate, went 
out of the room and shut the door. Bridget 
glanced up quickly, and met Hugh’s eyes. 
Did she see clearly, or were her tears deceiv- 
ing her? Such an expression on his face! 

“Bridget!” His strong voice was rich with 
love and yearning. “Will you return to 
Mine Run with me ? I have a home for you 
at last; not grand, as you deserve, but a home. 
Say you will come, Bridget.” 

He took her in his arms, and she did not 
resist. He held her there, then kissed her 
lips. 

“O Hugh, Hugh ! I have felt so much alone 
in the world. I need some one to love and 
protect me; all women do.” She was like a 
frank, innocent child speaking to its father. 

“I love and will protect you, Bridget.” 


THE COAL FIELDS. 207 


It was odd that Mrs. Nolan returned just 
then. Katie Finley in the corridor felt cer- 
tain that she had seen the good old soul put 
her ear, then her eye to the key-hole. 

“Well, wonders will never cease !” ex- 
claimed she. “To think as you two young 
geese didn’t come together afore now, but 
each go their own way, screeching after the 
other.” 

“It’s Hugh’s fault,” said Bridget, with a 
blush, “and I am half angry at him. I would 
have married him, and never left Mine Run, 
if he had said only the word.” 

“But, dear,” and his arm stole round her, 
“I did not want you to marry a miner.” 

“No,” she scolded — much to Mrs. Nolan’s 
delight, “you let me go wandering like a poor 
forlorn goose, as your mother said, when 
you ought to have been making me happy. 
Life in a hovel with you, dear,” and she looked 
lovingly into his eyes that were gazing into 
hers, “would be heaven on earth.” 

“Sure, the divil himself won’t be able to 
kill me after this,” said old Mrs. Nolan, 
jumping between the lovers and putting an 
arm about the neck of each. “I’ll take a 
lease of life for thirty years more. Pack up, 
the two of you, me young goose and gander; 
I want to be at Mine Run tomorrow, and you 


208 


THE LILY OF 


have got to come with me. Back to the coal 
regions with you now, Biddy Nolan, and no 
back talk from you. You ain’t your own 
boss no more; I’m your mam now.” 

Then Bridget kissed her. 
































One copy del. to Cat. Div. 


JAH 14 1911 



